


Witness Protection

by Eilinelithil



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: AU, Angst, Character Death, Corruption, Eventual Smut, F/M, First Time, Hurt/Comfort, Kidnapping, Major Character Injury, Rumbelle Secret Santa 2019 (Once Upon a Time), Threats of Rape/Non-Con, UST, Violence, bad parent, non-cursed storybrooke
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-22
Updated: 2019-12-22
Packaged: 2021-02-26 03:28:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 45,518
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21896680
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eilinelithil/pseuds/Eilinelithil
Summary: The Wife and Daughter of Massachusetts’ Governor, Maurice French, have been kidnapped. As the authorities raid the compound where they’re being held, his daughter, Belle, makes her own bid for freedom but is injured in the attempt before being taken into protective custody by Agent Milnor. Fearing for her life, Milnor calls upon an old friend to protect her; to keep her safe. A task that becomes imperative, as well as personal. Professional lines blur and the threat draws closer.Nominated for the 2020 Espenson Awards in the Best Secret Santa category.Nominated for the 2021 Espenson Awards in the Best First Time category.Nominated for the 2021 Espenson Awards in the Angst - Hurts So Good category.
Relationships: Belle & Rumplestiltskin | Mr. Gold
Comments: 49
Kudos: 39





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story was written for @killingkueen on Tumblr for the 2019 Rumbelle Secret Santa, and was subsequently nominated for Best Rumbelle Secret Santa in the 2020 TEAs.
> 
> I really went down to the wire on this one, because it took on a life of its own. There's obviously a lot of implied back story in this, and I just wasn't able to put it all in, so please feel free to AMA, about the fic or backstory, and I'll answer as best I can.

Milnor risked a glance behind him at the figure in the back of the car. She was still trembling visibly, even though he’d covered her with his jacket. It was the best he’d had available as he’d manhandled her into the vehicle at the last rest area where he’d stopped to try and take _some_ kind of care of her hands and arms, and to the deeper slice across the front of her shoulder. It disappeared beneath her blouse, and he didn’t really want to know how far down it went.

A car horn just behind his left shoulder warned him he was drifting in his lane, so he dragged his eyes back to the road ahead, snatching at the wheel to right his position. A glance in the rearview mirror told him she hadn’t even reacted to the sound or sudden movement. She was in shock. He was sure of it.

“Ah, _shit!_ ” The words rumbled out of him. They couldn’t afford another delay. Not so soon or still so close to Boston. If he were going to get her to safety… “Shit!” he growled again, and slapped his hands against the steering wheel before gunning it onto the next exit ramp, and following the signs to find the nearest McDonalds.

* * *

Gold had lost track of time. It was something he did often, in part because it meant very little to him. Not any more. He had no one to answer to, nowhere to be at any specific hour of an evening, and certainly no one to hurry home to, so what did it matter if he was burning the midnight oil?

His slender, perfectly groomed fingers moved carefully, sensually over the polished surface of the writing box he was restoring, delicately easing the gold leaf into place within the barely-there indentations at the corners of the cherry-wood lid; his movements precise, practiced, controlled.

The citizens of Storybrooke may not appreciate his presence, may even dislike him, resent him… who was he kidding? Most hated him and who could blame them after all, since he probably owned a little piece of each and every one of them? However, the townsfolk also knew a good craftsman when they saw one, and as such trusted him with some of their most precious and delicate things.

_Oh, how little they truly know._

He’d been in Storybrooke for almost twelve years, but, by tacit, mutual agreement between the town and Gold himself, it might have been a lifetime, longer. At least, longer than he could, or wanted to, remember. He lived comfortably in a large Victorian-style house, far enough toward the edge of town to remain private and to keep the riff-raff away, but close enough that he could easily keep a proprietary eye on his investment, and that - in addition to his place of business - meant most of the town itself.

He paused in what he was doing, tilting his head, and it took him a long moment to catch the sound that had disturbed his concentration. A frown darkened his face as he identified the sound that he had not heard in many long years, and he set down the tools with which he was working, wrapped the writing box in the soft, lint-free cloth to preserve its luster, and set it back on the shelf before clearing the tools from the top of the workbench. Only then did he leave the back room of the pawn shop. As he passed it, he picked up his cane and his gait became the smooth determined stride of purpose; no longer the sibilant shuffle of a man whose outer shell reflected the sins of his past.

He paused only to retrieve something from the cabinet behind the counter, before making his way to the door and extinguishing the lights. Then, he stepped out into the cold air of near midnight and locked the door behind him.

* * *

In the end, it was the lack of movement that roused Belle from her near stupor, to find herself alone in the car. She tried to move and gave a short cry as fire erupted through her chest, her arms and hands. The movement of her lips re-opened the split on the lower right side, adding to the pain that held her in its grasp. Her trembling increased again as she moved in spite of it. She pulled on the handle to open up the door of the car, but found it locked. So, she tried to reach for the button to release it. Her movement was brought up short, and the cold metal of handcuffs bit into her already throbbing wrist.

She closed her eyes, dislodging the tears that welled there. What was going on? Why was all this happening? She tried to recall, but couldn’t… only flashes, as if her mind were somehow blocking the whole picture; as though looking through a fog.

A sudden click and the illumination of the interior lighting made her start, and she hissed as the movement rekindled the aches and her pain. The door beside her opened, and the smell of hot tea washed over her in the moment before the man slipped into the car. She moved away, closer to the opposite door.

“Tea,” he said without looking at her, slightly raising the cup he was carrying, before setting it in the rear cup holder. Then he added, “With sugar. I figure you could use it.”

She didn’t answer, just turned her head, staring at him without really taking him in, only his movements, as he held up a small key between his fingers.

“If I let you out of those cuffs, we’re not gonna have you run again, right?” he asked, his voice even, with an almost playful hint behind it.

"Where are you taking me?" she asked softly, barely audible. She heard him sigh before he answered.

"Somewhere safe," he said, but she heard the hint of doubt in his voice and shrank further away from him, cramming herself into the corner between the door and the back of the seat as he leaned her way.

"I don't believe you."

He sighed again, and this time ignoring her protests, leaned across her to carefully grasp her wrist, slip the key into the lock and free her from the cuffs.

“How about a show of good faith?” he asked, tossing the cuffs into the front passenger seat. “There. Now, tea.”

He nodded to the cup in the holder and in response she held up both of her poorly bandaged hands. He harrumphed softly, and from somewhere on the seat beside him, he picked up a wrapped straw, opened the package, and after pushing it into place in the cup, held the drink out for her to take a sip.

The smell of the tea made her sore mouth water with need. Still she moved her head away, still untrusting, even after his previous gesture. She looked at him, her eyes carrying her suspicion as she took him in properly. His face was long, and while serious, and currently lined with worry, he was not unhandsome. His short, brown hair held a wave where it was not cropped close to his head. The longer parts of it lifted slightly in the breeze coming in through the still open door.

He lifted his eyebrows in question as he nodded toward the cup he still held out for her, his blue eyes showing clear concern as she didn’t move to drink the tea.

Instead, she held up her hands again and asked, “You did this?” He nodded in answer, and she shook her head. “I don’t remember, I…”

“You… weren’t exactly yourself,” he shrugged a little, “at the time. Look,” he added, “I’m not going to hurt you, and we have to get moving again because I can’t guarantee that we’re not being followed.”

Reflexively she looked around, the thought of being followed spurring her to take a sip, sucking the still-warm tea through the straw, and pulling a face at the sweetness of it, before turning her head away from the straw.

“What did you do, just pour in the entire sugar pot?”

He chuckled softly. “Something like that,” he said.

“Who are you anyway?” she asked, taking another tentative sip of tea.

In answer, he reached toward the jacket that was covering her lap. From the pocket, he took out a leather wallet and flipped it open with a motion that looked practiced and familiar. She guessed he’d probably done it many times before.

“Agent Jefferson Milnor,” she read as he allowed her to take it from his hand. “FBI?”

He pursed his lips and gave a slow, sideways nod when she looked up at him, almost a bow of greeting - of a sort - and said, “You can call me Jeff.”

* * *

He couldn’t blame her for not trusting him. The takedown had been a complete clusterfuck, and that was _before_ he decided to follow his gut instincts and not his orders. It reminded him of another time; another place. Unconsciously his hand strayed to the side of his neck, rubbing as if to soothe a phantom ache; as if the action could keep his mind from straying into an uncomfortable past.

It also reminded him that he had yet to receive an answer to his calls, and if he couldn’t get an answer as they continued driving, he was pretty much driving blindly in a northerly direction. He had no reason to believe that the _friend_ he was calling even had the same number. _How’s that for running blind?_

A glance behind him showed that his passenger was still asleep, her head lolling against the door in a way that couldn’t have been comfortable, and he resisted the uneasy urge to pull off to the side of the road and check that she still had a pulse. Instead, he reached for the phone on the passenger seat and thumbing it on, dialed the number from memory.

Again, he sat just listening to it ring and ring; the number was still active at least, even if it were not the man he was trying to reach that would be looking at the screen on the other end of the call and wondering who the hell it was that had butt-dialed him now.

* * *

Gold wasted little time. As soon as he got home and had locked the door behind him, he slipped off his jacket, hanging it on the back of the couch as he walked into the lounge, before systematically going room by room, checking the security of the windows; that each one was locked tight.

The phone he’d brought back with him from the shop rang again when he was part way through the check. He still didn’t answer. The third time it rang, he picked it up and looked at the number on the tiny screen, committing the series of digits to memory. He didn’t recognize the caller, but didn’t expect to. There was only one person he could think of that might call him on that particular phone, but it never hurt to be cautious, especially since he wasn’t sure how careful - or care _less_ that person might have been.

If it was the person he thought it was, then it could only mean trouble - and trouble was something he was used to facing - head-on.

Decision made, he turned and headed for the basement steps. Everything he was, it seemed, came with a price, and if that price was to be the ending of his decade of peace, then he had little recourse but to pay it, but… he wouldn’t do so without a little technological assistance.

* * *

When his phone rang, Milnor started so hard that he almost ran onto the shoulder. Glancing behind to ensure that the rumbling of the tires had not disturbed the young woman, he quickly snatched up the phone, the words, _Private Number,_ staring starkly up at him from the screen. His heart began to pound as he thumbed the key to accept the call, and for a moment there was silence, before the soft voice all but purred, smoothly dangerous, into his ear.

_“I was under the impression that the number you dialled was not to be used except in the direst of emergencies.”_

“Gold!” Milnor didn’t even try to hide his relief.

_“Indeed.”_

“I’m in a little spot of trouble.”

_“That much is evident, Agent Milnor”_

“So we’re back to that now, are we?” Milnor knew he’d made a mistake the moment the words left his mouth. It didn’t take the lowering of Gold’s voice to a quiet snarl to tell him that.

_“We never left it.”_

Silence descended, tense and awkward, and after a while Milnor began to wonder if Gold had ended the call, but then he heard the other man take a breath, long and deep before his voice sounded, calm and controlled once more.

_“This concerns the governor’s daughter, does it not.”_

“Wha-- how did--” Milnor began to splutter, but was cut off by Gold’s sarcastic response.

 _“Please. Credit me with_ some _intelligence. Where are you?”_

“I-95 Northbound, just passing--”

_“Take the next exit, and stay the hell off ithe nterstates and highways. Head for Dres--”_

“Gold, it’s late. I’m exhausted and--”

_“Then I shall bid you goodnight, Agent Milnor, and please… don’t call agai--”_

“Wait,” Milnor talked over Gold, speaking all but desperately, “Wait… sorry, just…”

_“Finally, wisdom. Take the next exit and then head for Dresden, use only minor roads, and if you must stop, for gas or any other purchases, pay cash, and don’t linger.”_

“I know the protocols,” Milnor said, trying not to feel a fool for letting his professionalism slip.

_“Good. Then you’ll follow them. We’ll speak again in three hours.”_

Gold cut the call before Milnor could answer.

* * *

As soon as he hung up, Gold turned his attention back to the road map that was spread out on the desk. He’d given some thought to sending Milnor a little way too far north, to have him approach Storybrooke from Jefferson, but he didn’t think the other man would appreciate the joke. Besides, there was an urgency about the situation that was beginning to make him uncomfortable; that set the hairs on the back of his neck on end. Tiny antennae, all sensing trouble. No amount of rationalizing that there was no way he could know that could convince him otherwise.

Having secured the route from Dresden in his head, Gold walked through to the kitchen to make himself some coffee. It was already late, and by the time Milnor arrived it would be approaching dawn. He supposed he _could_ try to get a couple of hours sleep, but he knew himself well enough to predict that it would only leave him feeling worse than if he stayed awake and simply indulged in an early night once the day was done.

Speaking of which…

If, as he suspected, Milnor was bringing the French girl to him as some kind of safe haven, he was going to need to make sure that one of the other bedrooms was suitably prepared. All the rooms in the house were clean of course, and maintained so regularly by the cleaning service, but there was clean, and there was welcoming and comfortable. The gentleman in him would rather he offered her the latter, so once his coffee was brewed, and had been consumed, he climbed the stairs and headed for the linen closet.

* * *

Belle woke to the murmur of a voice. The car was still speeding along toward whatever _safe_ destination she was being taken, and she still felt as though she were trying to shake herself to pieces. In addition to this, a churning kind of nausea had taken root in her belly. Belle felt thoroughly miserable. Miserable and scared.

There was a soft bleep as Agent Milnor - should couldn’t bring herself to think of him as Jeff - cut off the call, and she offered him the barests of smiles as he turned his head to glance in her direction. She didn’t even think he would be able to see it, there was so little light along the wooded road they were hurtling down.

“You’re awake,” he said, and she thought she saw his face soften into a smile of his own.

“Where are we?” she asked, her voice sounded hoarse and hesitant even to her own ears.

“How do you feel?” Milnor asked a question of his own, and she felt a thin sliver of anger glint within her, momentarily driving back her fear.

“Like my question is being ignored. Where _are_ we? Where are we going?” she repeated, adding quickly, “And don’t tell me, ‘somewhere safe’.”

“Okay,” he said, and she could hear the, _‘I’ll tell you but it won’t make any difference,’_ in his voice as he answered, “We’re about 40 minutes outside of our destination. A town called Storybrooke.”

“And what’s in Storybrooke?” she asked, ignoring his tone.

“Not what. Who,” he said.

“Your friend,” she guessed, then asked, “Was that who you were talking to on the phone just now?”

“Yes, and yes,” he said. “He’s expecting us. He’ll meet us just outside of town.”

“Why here, why him?” she said, a new fear started to grab a hold of her. Something in the way he was talking made her think that Agent Milnor wasn’t coming with her; wasn’t going to stay. Not that she knew him, or trusted him exactly, but he did _appear_ to be trying to help her. This… friend of his, this man to whom he was bringing her, she knew _nothing_ about him. Nothing.

“And why me?” she went on before he could answer, “Why… bring me all the way up here? Why not just take me to your offices, or better yet, a hospital?” She held up her injured hands, wincing as she did so, her voice rising even as she tried to quell the slight beginnings of hysteria she felt. “What do you want from me!”

“Belle, you’ve _seen_ these people,” he said urgently, pulling the car into the side of the road and turning in the driver’s seat to look at her. She swallowed hard, reading many things in his face: determination, concern, even anger, but she also saw his doubt; his fear. It magnified her own. She frowned and began shaking her head, no. He shook his own in contradiction and said, “Yes. You’re seen them, you know who they are, so… I _need_ your help to do something I can’t.”

“No, I…” she began, her fear creeping, like cold fingers up her chest to wrap around her neck and choke her words.

“My friend… his name is Mister Gold. Tell him.” He reached through the gap between the seats and grasped her wrist, holding her tightly, “All you need to do is tell him what you know.”

“Wh-- what?” she asked, trying to put everything together. Why couldn’t she tell Agent Milnor? Why hadn’t he taken her in for questioning, to ask her what she knew, and who she’d seen; what they did? Understanding dawned slowly. She’d read enough crime novels to know that the kind of people who had taken her _always_ had someone on the inside… she wasn’t safe.

As if he read the understanding in her eyes, he said, “It’s very important. Mister Gold is going to protect you, but you have to tell him everything you heard, everything you saw. He’s going to know what to do.” His voice quieted then and he stopped gripping her quite so hard, and the blood rushing back into her hand left it burning and aching, throbbing to the rapid beat of her heart, as he asked, “You understand?”

She swallowed, nodded, and wiped her frightened tears away on the back of her bandaged hand.

“Yes,” she whispered, as Agent Milnor turned around and put the car in motion again. “I have to talk to Mister Gold.”

* * *

The Cadillac rolled quietly to a halt, and Gold turned out the headlights, sitting for a moment, taking in the shadowed, pre-dawn woods. This was his time - the darkest hour before the light returned. It was the time when the hidden became clear to him; the time when he did his best thinking… usually.

At that moment however, there was only _feeling…_ unease, expectation, and something else he couldn’t quite name. He sighed and reached for his cane, then opened the door. There was no point in dwelling on whatever it was that was so unsettling, especially, he thought, when it was likely just the product of fatigue.

The brisk morning air revived him somewhat, and he stepped out of the car, closing the door before he straightened his suit jacket, silently cursing that the shoulder holster he had decided might be necessary - and the weapon it held - utterly ruined the fit of his clothes. Still, it couldn’t be helped. Until he was certain of Milnor’s motives in coming to him, he would rather be safe than dead.

The thought made him chuckle darkly, as he recalled the occasion that drew him to this caution; the events that ultimately led him to Storybrooke, and to this specific moment. The cliche was that when one door closed, another opened. He’d never believed that, because if it were true, then all the doors he’d stood before had opened onto nightmares, even if he had fallen on his feet.

The sound of an engine, and lights approaching along the tree-lined road drew him back to himself, and he straightened, settling his cane on the ground before him, and taking the handle in both of his hands, adopted an attitude of unconcerned patience. He did not intend to make the first move. He would make Agent Milnor come to _him._ He watched as the other vehicle - by its shape, not the government issued fleet car that man would have requisitioned - drew to a halt, and the headlights dimmed enough for him to see past them, to read the words, ‘ _MAD HAT’_ staring back at him from the license plate, and in silhouette watched as the driver turned to address the person in the back of the car.

“You planned this,” he accused softly as Milnor got out of the car, without a word of greeting.

“Not exactly,” said Milnor, approaching, cautiously staying within the lowered beams of the vehicle’s headlights, “I had a hunch that something… wasn’t quite right, so… I made contingency plans - for my safety, you understand.”

“And your safety included bringing your…” Gold trailed off for a moment, peering back through the light toward the diminutive shape sitting in the back of the car. Then, with quiet menace asked, “What _is_ she to you?”

“Look, Gold,” Milnor said, taking another step forward and grabbing hold of his arm. Gold looked at the agent’s hand on the sleeve of his overcoat as though he could set the man on fire by his gaze alone. Milnor snatched his hand away and raised it, fingers splayed in defensive apology as he said, “Look, she’s already been caught in the crossfire. Last thing we need--”

“We need?” Gold rumbled, low and pointedly.

“Last thing _she_ needs is you going all… feral on her ass.”

“Feral, Mister Milnor?” He raised an eyebrow, “Hardly. You brought her to me for protection, I assume, and for me to be effective in that regard, I need to know… everything.”

Milnor sighed, his posture shifting to one of resignation as, slowly, haltingly, told everything he knew of what sounded to Gold like either the worst planned law enforcement raid in the _history_ of raids or…

“So, you believe it was all, what? A set up?” he asked, voicing his own thoughts as a test for Milnor’s motives. “That someone wanted… certain people out of the way?”

Milnor nodded, “Those of us not on their side.”

“The girl included?” Gold thought that highly unlikely, given the circumstances, unless somehow… “The mother?”

Milnor’s face took on a sombre expression, leading Gold a thought closer to confirming his suddenly constructed theory about the kidnapping.

“Does she know?” he asked, nodding toward the car.

Milnor shook his head, “Didn’t get the chance, nor have the heart to tell her.”

Gold sighed. Why did the difficult conversations always fall to him?

“Fine.” he snapped. “You’re certain you weren’t followed?”

“As certain as I _can_ be.” Milnor confirmed. “Gold, please, I need you to keep her safe. What she knows; what she’s seen. It could blow their organisation apart.”

“Provided you could get it to someone uncorrupted by their number.” Gold said.

“It’s a risk,” Milnor confirmed, “but it’s our best chance.”

“Hmmm,” Gold mused, looking up toward Milnor’s car again. “Very well,” he said at last, “I’ll protect the girl, and you’ll tell me anything more you come across that will help me to do that.”

“Thanks, Gold,” Milnor said, his expression one of obvious relief. “I owe you.”

Gold’s face cracked into a humorless, predatory smile. “Indeed, yes. You do.” he purred. “So… shall we?” he gestured toward the other man’s car.

“One more thing,” Milnor interrupted as Gold moved to take a step forward. Gold steadied himself again even before he could move and turned in place to face the other man, waiting for him to speak. “She’s hurt.”

Gold’s expression changed from one of mild, self-righteous patience to one of worried irritation; like thunder coming out of a clear sky.

“And you drove five hours with her in the back of your car and didn’t--!”

“Give me _some_ credit, Gold. I did what I could. I’m just telling you. It’ll need looking at - likely a doctor…”

“All the more reason to get her out of your car, don’t you think?” said Gold finally taking a step forward and carefully stepping over the top of the deep red line painted on the road’s surface. He felt rather than saw Milnor look at him curiously.

“What is this, some kind of… warning or something. ‘Stay out of my patch, or else?’”

Gold fixed him with a withering look. “Believe me, if I had anything to do with that, it would be something far more insidious than a mere line painted on the blacktop.” He did not offer any further explanation, simply walked over to the door beside where the young woman - Belle French - sat in the back of Milnor’s car, and bent a little as he reached for the handle.

“Careful, Gold,” Milnor warned as the door easily opened, “She’s a runner.”

Gold’s expression became a tight smirk as the light illuminated the woman’s face. He had seen her picture, of course, when the news first broke of her kidnapping, but seeing her now, in person, her skin pale, her lips a dark, plump pink where she had been biting on them, bruised and ragged on one side where she had evidently been hit, and her dark hair falling about her shoulders to frame it all, Gold thought she looked utterly stunning, in spite of her injuries. 

“Oh, I don’t think so, Agent,” Gold murmured, softly. Then, he held out a hand towards where Belle began stirring and after a moment held out her least bandaged hand toward his outstretched palm. He reached past her hand to cup the inside of her wrist instead as he helped her out of the vehicle. The white of the bandages was stark against his tanned skin.

“You won’t run from me…” he addressed Belle outright, catching her eyes.“Will you, Dearie?”

* * *

Belle jumped in her seat as the car door suddenly opened beside her. She looked up, expecting to see Agent Milnor.

“Wha-- who---” She stammered, just as she heard Milnor warning the man in front of her that she was a runner. He called him Gold. She took a breath, raising her eyes once more to look at the man standing beside her doorway, taking him in.

He held a cane, and reflected light glinted from the top of it, where he held it in his hand. He wore a dark overcoat, over equally dark pants. No, not just pants, a suit - a very well tailored suit, unless she missed her guess. The color of the shirt or tie, she could not see. For the light, though it streamed toward them, seemed to shy away from him, before being absorbed in all that he was. She looked higher, into his face. Stern expression, eyes as dark as the suit he wore, and long hair, resting against the collar of his overcoat at the back, and tumbling like twin, sweeping curtains to caress his high cheekbones; to frame his face.His brows were drawn together into a frown as he appeared to be examining _her_ just as much as she was him, and his mouth…

His full-lipped, wide mouth was rounded as he spoke, in a tone barely above a whisper, in an accent that all but compelled her to reach out and take the hand he offered as he said to Milnor, “Oh, I don’t think so, Agent..” And then to her, “You won’t run from me, will you, Dearie.”

She shivered, but reached up to accept his offer to alight. She was relieved when he reached past her bandaged hand to carefully clasp her wrist, gentle but firm. There was a coiled, controlled tension in him, and she could feel it as he led her far enough away from Milnor’s car to close the door, then he stopped and shrugged off his overcoat, releasing her arm so that he could slip the coat around her shoulders. The warmth and weight were comforting, but the scent of him - lingering on the borrowed clothing - had bite. Sweet and spice, and the scent of a deep and ancient forest that wrapped around her, claiming her. Marking her, his.

“Come, Miss French.” She felt his forearm guide her with an insistent pressure across the back of her shoulders, securing his overcoat around her with his hand carefully placed on her arm. “Let’s get you home.”

Home.

Rather than make her feel more at ease, her trembling increased, and she heard herself make an almost incoherent sound. Her feet moved on automatic, each moving twice to keep pace with his long, yet slightly limping gait, and her heart fell into sync with the rhythmic tapping of the cane.

Tap-beat, Tap-beat, Tap-beat.

“You’ll be safe with Mister Gold.” She barely heard Agent Milnor’s voice as they passed him, as if she were suddenly, somehow walking outside of the world. Aware only of Gold at her side; guiding her, touching her.

Tap-beat, Tap-beat, Tap-beat.

“I’ll be in touch, Agent Milnor… When I need you.”

Tap-beat, Tap-beat, Tap-beat.

* * *

They drove in silence, and Gold was neither surprised, nor worried by the fact. She would speak when she was ready, when there was greater trust. On the other hand that was unfortunate because he would have to see to her injuries in a better manner than the hatchet job that Milnor had done.

He took the slightly longer route that would take him past the drugstore, murmuring to Miss French to remain in the car while he unlocked the store, found what he needed and left more than sufficient money on the counter beside the register to pay for the items he took. Then he returned to the car, confident - and correct - that she would still be in the vehicle. It wasn’t much later that they arrived at his home.

He could clearly see that she was barely holding on, as fatigued as she was and after all that had happened to her, but still there was the matter of her hands, the cut to her shoulder and across her chest, and also anywhere else she may have been hurt that Milnor might not have known. He showed her carefully into the lounge after helping her up the steps to the porch and through the front door, and to a seat by the open fire, which he had banked, but left burning to ensure the room would be warm on his return.

“Make yourself at home, Miss French,” he told her quietly, “I imagine that you’re quite sore and tired. I could make coffee, or if you’d prefer--”

“Tea.”

The word was barely above a whisper, but alert for any changes to her condition he heard her as though she had shouted.

“Of course,” he said, offering her a smile, which she almost, faintly, returned. “Any kind in particular?”

She shook her head. “Just… tea,” she said.

“Right,” he said softly, “I’ll only be a moment.” He started toward the door, and then turning said, “And please… Miss French, just rest. You’re perfectly safe here… with me.”

He nodded once, and then headed for the kitchen, taking out the things he’d need after putting on the kettle to boil the water. It was a task he did so often that it was automatic, and let his mind work through other things; important things, which at that moment was to wonder how in the name of everything holy was he to get his guest to allow him to take care of her injuries. Oh the hands, the hands would be no issue at all, but others…

He had never been the kind of man to look on a woman and feel the instant pull of attraction, and the few times he had, had caused him nothing but trouble, pain and heartache. So,he had adopted a healthy dose of caution and skepticism as a shield against all matters of the heart, and extended the ruthlessness he displayed in business - of all kinds - into the bedroom. It didn’t allow space for the kind of desire, the kind of lust, that made men crazy; made them do stupid things. Oh, he was aware, without guile or ego, of the attraction toward him by the fairer sex, but only rarely allowed himself to indulge his own libido in such matters, but that did not mean he was… how had Milnor put it once, ‘dead from the neck down?’

And yet…

When he had seen Belle French, sitting in the back of Milnor’s car; when her eyes had met his and had given him clear access to all the fear he could see, and _feel_ bubbling inside her, the _whole_ of him had answered. He knew, to the depth of his wretched soul, he would protect her; would _die_ to keep her safe if it had to be - all in a single moment. And he wanted her. Oh, how he wanted to break every single one of his rules with her. Let her close; take her, _know_ her and have her cry out for him in the moment she dissolved into the purity of completion.

The kettle began to boil, and he could not help but let out a breathless chuckle at the irony of that, and poured the water into the teapot with hands that shook only slightly. No. He could not allow it. No matter how much he might _want_ it.

He heard her soft tread in the doorway and turned to face her as he carried the teapot to the tray that was set upon the kitchen table.

“Miss French,” he said.

“I’m sorry,” she answered, “I didn’t mean to disturb you.”

“Not at all,” he told her with a slight smile, despite the lingering gravelly tone in his voice. “If you’d rather we take our tea in here… it _is_ less ostentatious than the lounge.”

“And less austere than your study,” she said. “Sorry, I… looked, I--”

“No matter.” He gestured toward one of the seats at the table. “My home is yours. You may go wherever you please,” he said, adding quickly, “Er, except the basement.” She raised her eyebrow at that, So he explained, “I fear there’s so much down there it would not be entirely… safe.”

He pulled out the chair she had moved toward saying a soft, “Please,” and nodding to the seat. Then, returning to his explanation of the basement’s safety, said, “It’s a little haphazardly stacked.”

“I understand,” she said, and took her seat, then asked, “You’re sure you don’t mind?”

He quirked a querying eyebrow as he took his own seat, one at the adjacent side to her place at the table.

“Taking tea in the kitchen.”

“No, indeed not,” he assured her, then reaching for the bag from the drug store, began setting out the supplies beside the tray that held the teapot; demonstrating his intent. He did not miss her slight shiver. “Besides,” he said as he put down the last item, “The light is better here.”

“Yes,” she said, almost a whisper.

He poured the tea in silence, giving her precious few moments to get used to the idea on which he would not be moved; that he would care for, and properly dress, her wounds.

“I noticed…” she began, eyeing the gauze, and alcohol wipes and dressings he had placed on the tabletop, before lifting her gaze to his again.

“Go on,” he said and picked up one of the cups of tea to set it in front of her.

“You had the key to the drugstore,” she said.

“You’ll find, Miss French, that I possess the keys to most places in Storybrooke.”

“Why?” she asked.

“Because I’m a shrewd businessman, Dearie, and I’m not afraid to be ruthless when necessary,” he said. “I am landlord to many people and business owners in this town.”

“And do you find it necessary to be ruthless now, Mister Gold?” she asked.

“No, Miss French, I do not.”

It seemed, to him, to be a strange kind of flirting in which they were engaged, and he felt himself revisiting his earlier thoughts. He also wondered whether she was attempting to disarm him with her sudden willfulness, or attempting to distract herself, for he clearly saw the tremor in the teacup she raised, and watched the errant drop of tea she left on her swollen lower lip, the slight wince she gave at the heat of the porcelain on her injured mouth, and shifted, momentarily in his chair, as he felt his body’s reaction to her affected bravery.

“Belle,” she said as she placed the teacup back into its saucer with a slight rattle. He raised an eyebrow again, and stood, reaching for the back of his chair, and lifting it to set it down on the same edge of the table as hers. “My name is Belle.”

* * *

“I’m aware,” he said, slipping off his jacket, to hang it on the back of his chair, and beginning to unfasten his cuff links.

Belle shivered, watching him as he practically stood over her; swallowing hard as he rolled back the sleeves of his black, silk shirt to his mid forearms, revealing his tanned skin, and the slender but leanly muscled arms beneath. Even as tired and hurt as she was, she was fully self aware of her own attraction to the man before her, Milnor’s ‘Mister Gold.’ She couldn’t help but wonder how much of that _was_ born of the hurt, and of her own, growing need for comfort as the numbness of her mind began to leave her.

She had seen terrible things. She had heard the awful cries of fear and pain, and had _narrowly_ avoided, she knew, the most dreadful of assaults by a man at least twice her size. But worse… she had… _done_ … something terrible, and she wasn’t sure that she could live with that.

“And you are?” she licked her lips, nervously, wincing as she disturbed the cuts and bruises on her tender flesh.

“Gold,” he told her, and he reached out to grasp her chair and turn it sideways on, before sitting and bringing his closer still, settling his legs either side of her primly clamped knees. The heat of him scalded her trembling thighs.

“Mister Gold,” she said, and hurried raised her arms defensively between them as his slender fingers reached toward her face. “You are about to clean and dress wounds on my person that extend far beyond what you can see, and which could easily be considered intimate. The _least_ you can do is to extend me the courtesy of knowing your given name!”

Her breathing, already unsteady, grew shallow and rapid as he caught her eyes and regarded her with a stare that was either _intensely_ bored, or predatory. She swallowed again as he regarded her silently for many long moments.

“Reinauld,” he growled softly. “Reinauld Michael Gold. Rein.”

He said it like the weather, and his tone made her stomach flip, unlocking the beginning of a soft ache deep within her core. She felt the name suited him - perfectly - and flushed with the awareness that she was becoming damp with want.

She lowered her hands to rest them on top of her thighs, allowing him to proceed, and without meaning to, closed her eyes as his fingers gently brushed beneath her chin, raising her face to his gaze. She heard the rustle and tearing of a packet, opened her eyes, and gasped softly, parting her lips, his closeness surprising her.

Her heart stuttered tangibly in her chest, as she breathed in the scent of him that she had first noticed when he’d set his overcoat around her. It was stronger here, more immediate and with much greater heat.

“I’m afraid this is going to sting,” he said, his voice softer and lower than she had yet heard it, quieter too. She wanted to tell him it was fine, but all capacity for any kind of speech left her as the small square he held pressed carefully, but firmly, against the split on her mouth. She hissed as the sting of it swept over her, and she tried to pull away, but she felt the fingers of his other hand cup the side of her face, and tip back her head a little more. “Easy…” he murmured, “Trust me.”

“I’m sorry,” she breathed, when she could, at last, catch her breath, “I wasn’t ready, I…”

She trailed off as he lifted the antiseptic wipe away, his fingers instead brushed against her lip with something cool, which took away the stinging heat.

“Better?” he asked, and she raised her eyes to find his, seeing concern, but behind it… the slow widening of his pupils, and then the not-quite-innocent pass of his thumb across her lower lip.

She swallowed. Her breathing hitched inward, and she closed her eyes again as he turned her face to the side, his thumb leaving her lip to rest against her chin.

“It looks like,” his voice was a low purr within the silence of the room, a silence that was loaded, heavy and thick; the back of his index finger of the other hand skimmed her cheek and jawline, “you’ll have a bruise coming in here.” His touch retreated, and he said, “I should have some arnica gel in the bathroom cabinet upstairs. If you’d like.”

“Thank you,” she said quietly and opened her eyes again to find him sitting back in his chair, watching her, as if waiting. She swallowed, trying to read his suddenly impassive face. Then, a faint smile creased his face and he shook his head slightly.

“Drink up,” he said, “Tea’s getting cold.”

A frown of confusion momentarily drew down her brows, before Belle sought to grab a hold of her whirling emotions. What had she almost thought… almost done? He hands trembled shamelessly as she picked up her tea, It was going to spill everywhere.

Then his hands were around hers, steadying her, righting her cup, and helping her to take another sip and then another, until she took a proper drink and the warmth and sweetness of the tea seemed to sweep away the embarrassment she suddenly felt. She gave him a nod, and he released her hands, moving from the chair to go to one of the kitchen drawers, before returning with a pair of scissors.

“Let’s take a look at those hands, shall we?” he asked her, nodding to her bandaged hand that held her cup.

* * *

_What the_ hell _are you doing?!_

He crossed the kitchen to get a sharp pair of scissors that he figured would be the best way to remove the bindings that Milnor had used, but that wasn’t the reason he was berating himself. He had almost crossed a line. For all that he had been priding himself on his control, at the first moment of coming closer to her, he had all but seduced her with the touch of his hands on her face.

He took a breath. What _was_ it about her that so called to him? He had no answer for himself, and still a job to do. For just a moment he considered calling in a favor and calling Doctor Whale, but the thought of that man’s hand coming anywhere near to her held an abhorrence that he was well aware was inflated beyond the level appropriate for that of a protector. That was his role. _That_ was who he was - all he could be.

“Let’s take a look at those hands, shall we?” he asked Belle, nodding to her bandaged hands as he sat down again. He set the scissors onto the tabletop, and reached for one of her hands as she set down her tea.

She held out her hand to him, and he cupped it in his left, while his right hand worked the scissors, carefully cut away the bandages without cutting her flesh. As he peeled them aside, even _he_ winced.

“Oh, Miss French,” he forced himself not to use her given name. “These are clearly defensive wounds.”

Grasping her wrist, he carefully turned her hand one way and another, examining the jagged cut that had torn through her from palm to the side of her hand. He wondered who the hell she’d been defending herself against, and what they were trying to do, but felt there he was no _way_ he would be able to close a wound like this by himself. There were also deep cuts to the first three fingers of her hand, and countless other, shallower cuts.

“I really think I’m going to have to call--”

“No,” she said hurriedly. “I trust _you!_ ” she told him. “I don’t _want_ anyone else to… to touch me… to see me this way.”

“But these cuts…” She shook her head. “All right,” he said, “I’ll make you a deal.”

“Go on,” she whispered, beginning to shake in earnest now, so much that he could feel it through the contact with her hand.

“I will do my best to clean, close, and dress this now, if later… when you’re rested, you agree to let me bring someone here to check my work.”

He watched her face as she drew the unswollen side of her lip between her teeth; could almost see the thoughts flashing through her frightened eyes. Eventually she nodded.

“And I have to warn you,” he said softly, “This _will_ hurt. I have no anesthetic.”

“It’s all right,” she told him, fixing as resolute an expression on her face as he thought he’d ever seen anyone make. “I’m just so tired, Rein. I want it over with, so I can rest.”

It was her use of his name that broke him, and he sat down on the chair he had vacated and reached for her, drawing her head to rest on his shoulder and holding her gently for just a moment… one short moment in a lifetime of loneliness.

She clung to him with the hand that was still bandaged shaking against his shoulder blade, and just before he drew her away, he turned his head and kissed her temple softly, murmuring into her hair.

“I’ll be as gentle as I can, Belle. I promise.”

* * *

In the end, though he had been as careful as he could have been, he was also right, and even putting on a brave face, the pain had been almost unbearable, and at the end of it all she had clung to him again, her body burning, and a churning nausea in her stomach.

“You need to rest,” he told her, even as he held her in an embrace that was entirely dissimilar to before. This was one of support, as though he feared she would faint at any moment, which, to be fair, she had thought herself many times during the amount of time it had taken him to clean, close and dress the wounds to her hands and her shoulder.

“I took the liberty of preparing a room for you upstairs,” he said, “And I found a few things that you might be able to use to sleep in: and old shirt of mine, and a pair of pajama pants… and there are toiletries in the bathroom you can use.”

“Thank you,” she murmured, and made an effort to push herself up, and stumbled slightly, before he caught hold of her forearm again.

“I’ll show you the way,” he told her, and standing, came to her side as she began to take unsteady steps along the hallway. “Take your time. There’s no rush.”

To Belle, the stairs looked like a mountain, even though they doubled back on themselves with a half landing in one of the two, tall front bay windows she had seen from the outside of the house. With Gold’s help, she was able to make her way to the top, and along the short landing to the doorway he indicated, and then opened for her, flicking on the light as she passed him.

He went no further than the threshold, she realized, as, feeling the sudden absence of his warmth, she turned to see him standing there. He gave her a smile, and for no reason she could name, she found herself blushing in response.

“I must step out for a while,” he told her, “but I’m hoping you’ll at least try to get some sleep.”

She gestured toward him, somewhat ineffectually, and said, “You… should rest too. You haven’t slept either…”

“The difference is, Miss French,” he said, as he gave her another gentle smile, “is that I didn’t just undergo severe trauma. Don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine.”

“But it’s because of me,” she said then. “I kept you up.”

Shaking his head, he finally stepped into the room, and across to where she stood beside the bed, and leaned down to pick up the clothing that lay there, and handed it to her, pointedly, but with a look of soft concern in his eyes, which she met briefly as he spoke.

“If it will help to make you feel any better,” he said, “I assure you I will be seeking my bed a good deal earlier than usual today.”

“Good,” she said. “Yes.”

He gave her a polite little half bow, and retreating toward the door added, “I won’t be gone long; a few hours at most, and I’ll lock up when I leave. Sleep well, Miss French.”

Once he’d gone from the room, she sat on the side of the bed, listening to the sounds of him moving around downstairs, which dwindled, somehow, into the distance the longer she sat unmoving herself. Slowly as she sat, she moved her swollen, uncooperative fingers to unfasten her ruined blouse, and bra, wincing at the strain the latter put on her injured shoulder, and only vaguely wondered how on earth, and in what she was going to dress herself when she woke.

She sighed, as she slipped on the shirt Gold had given her to wear. A deep, wine colored silk that felt like a caress settling over her nude upper body, and she shivered as the goose bumps rose all over her body, her nipples peaked and she felt a brief and answering pulse between her thighs. She didn’t have the energy to wonder at it for too long, but felt the blush that followed in the wake of the feelings. Was it because she knew it was _his_ shirt, or just that the fabric felt so sensual on her so recently brutalized skin?

Still trying to make sense of the entire night - and indeed the days of the horrible nightmare before that - she unfastened the dark blue business pants she had been wearing when they’d taken her, in broad daylight, from Boston City Hall. Of course that hadn’t been the challenge that it should have been. They’d simply marched her, and her mother, out through the front door on the orders of--

“Enough!” she all but screamed, and slammed both hands down beside her on the top of the bed. She regretted it at once. In the rush of new pain, she fought down the bile that rose into her throat, and curled up on top of the bed cradling her hands against her chest. She broke down then, huge painful sobs that she could no longer deny. She didn’t _want_ to remember. She didn’t want to know anything more. She wanted just to let the oblivion of sleep claim her, and shelter her from all the things that were still locked within her head. Somehow she managed to pull on the pajama pants that Gold had also left for her, and crawl beneath the covers of the bed, feeling suddenly very cold and alone.

* * *

Gold drove the short distance into town possessed of a seething, burning anger that he had not felt, not like this, in a very long time; angered at those who had done such harm to a member of the fairer sex, and if he were honest, at himself, for causing her additional pain. He knew there’d been no help for it. What he’d had to do was necessary, but that did not excuse him. Not in his eyes. Throughout his many years walking in… less than savory circles amongst many shady individuals, it had been the one, sacrosanct rule that he would not see broken. One did not, under any circumstances, harm a lady.

However, aside from that reason, he could not understand why he felt the anger so acutely. Before early that morning, he had not met the girl, no - he corrected himself - Miss French was no girl, she was a young woman, possessed of an inner grace and beauty that defied description. But this anger - this seething rage - it felt somehow personal.

Yes, he tried to rationalize, he had been asked to care for her and to protect her, by Milnor; a man to whom he owed his life - although that was a mutual state of affairs. As such he would do so to the best of his, quite considerable, abilities, but it went beyond that.

He shook his head as he turned the car into the entrance of the hospital campus; his first port of call and he rather suspected he’d be able to exorcise at least _some_ of his bubbling emotions with the visit to the Doctor.

It was a testament to his reputation that when he entered the hospital, members of staff, and ambulatory patients alike scattered, scurrying out of his rapidly tapping footsteps - and the reach of his cane - as he marched toward where he knew he could usually find Whale. However, this time the room was empty, so he turned his ire on a young orderly, whose poor luck, or poor judgement - and Gold had a hard time deciding which - brought him close at the precise moment Gold turned from the room.

“Doctor Whale,” he said, “Where is he.”

“I erm… that is…”

“Come on, man, spit it out. Where…?” Gold’s voice sharpened, irritated by the man’s inability to form a complete sentence.

“I… um… I don’t know. Last time I… he….”

“Somebody tell me where he is,” Gold instructed both the orderly and the desk staff.

Someone had evidently alerted Whale to his presence because he spotted the doctor out of the corner of his eye, trying to make his way out of the hospital via the ambulance entrance. Uncaring of the sign that clearly said, “Hospital Staff Only,” Gold propelled himself into the corridor, ‘accidentally’ nudging a stray gurney with the end of his cane and pushing it directly into Whale's path.

Whale turned to him with a sigh, but before the doctor could speak, Gold said, sarcastically, “You really want to have a word with the ambulance staff about leaving those things lying around. It’s a safety hazard.”

“Mister Gold,” Whale tried to side step Gold while answering him in a nervously patient tone, “Whatever it is, is going to have to wait, I’m afraid, I--”

“Oh, I don’t think so, Doctor,” Gold said, “because, you see, there’s still the matter of the outstanding loan payment for that flashy new pimp wagon you’ve been driving around town and--”

“Pimp wagon!” Whale warbled in indignation, despite the very obvious threat that Gold had leveled at him, drawing several stares their way.

“Perhaps we should take this conversation somewhere a little more… private,” Gold added then, stepping up and snarling right into his face. “ After all, I’d hate to damage your reputation.” He turned then, and stalked in the direction of Whale’s office, trusting that the man would follow him, and follow he did.

“All right, Gold,” Whale said as he entered his office behind Gold and closed the door to prying eyes and ears. “What is it you want?”

“A house call,” Gold answered simply.

“Seriously?” Whale scoffed, “You come all the way out here to threaten me over a house call, which, by the way, you _know_ I don’t do.”

“You do now,” Gold growled softly. “And believe me, Doctor, I haven’t made any threats… yet.”

Whale moistened his lips, and after a moment asked almost hesitantly, “So, um… if I… the house call, if I make an exception for you in this instance, what… what’s in it for me?”

Gold chuckled, his ruthless expression not shifting for an instant, though he was entirely unsurprised by Whale’s fake bravado. Under normal circumstances he would have called the Doctor’s bluff, but, he reminded himself, these were not normal circumstances. “You make a house call, and assure me of the utmost doctor-patient confidentiality, and I _might_ be persuaded to… recalculate the terms of the loan.”

Whale appeared to be contemplating the arrangement, but Gold knew he really had little choice but to accept. The car had cost a small fortune, even on a doctor’s salary, and the loan, together with the monthly rent on the apartment, meant that Gold had the doctor practically by the balls and he was more than willing to squeeze.

“Well?” Gold snapped, when what little patience he had with the man began to draw even thinner. “Do we have a deal?”

Whale eventually nodded. “Fine. I’ll come,” she said, “but you’re going to have to tell me a little more than just that you need me to make a house call.”

* * *

Belle woke with a start, and a short cry, for a moment struggling, her heart pounding, and panic mounting as she fought with her unseen assailant. It was only when she opened her eyes, finding herself alone, that she realized that she had simply become tangled in the covers, and that the pajama pants had become tangled around her legs.

Taking several calming breaths, she slowly set about untangling herself, and once free, decided that since she was awake, and had fallen asleep without seeing to her comfort first, she would head to the bathroom.

Her legs felt as though they were made of lead, and the short walk along the hallway to the bathroom seemed to take an eternity. She felt as though every muscle in her body ached, and as she entered the bathroom, on seeing the enormous, decorative, claw-foot bathtub, she began to long for the feeling of hot water surrounding her, to soak away her hurts.

Of course, she knew, realistically, it wasn’t possible for now. Not unless she could think of some way to avoid soaking the dressings, and getting the wounds wet, undoing everything that she and Gold had been through. The thought reminded her of the look of anguish she had seen, briefly, in his eyes. Strangely, the thought made her blush.

Then she berated herself. She hardly knew the man; had only been in his presence for a few hours and yet… she had trusted him, implicitly, and not only that… she blushed again as the knowledge of her almost immediate attraction to the man descended over her again.

Relieving herself quickly, as much to distract herself from overthinking everything, she moved to wash her hands, and saw the things he had set out for her there. An unopened toothbrush and tube of toothpaste, a fresh bar of soap, and next to them, a tube of something, set on top of a handwritten note. She picked up the soap, bringing it to her nose and inhaling deeply of the sweet rose scent of it, as if he had known her favorite scent, and after washing her hands as best she could, and drying them carefully on the soft, thick hand towel, moved the tube aside and picked up the note beneath.

“ _Miss French,_ ” it read, “ _I realized that I neglected to bring the arnica gel to you, and did not wish to disturb your rest, so left it here, in the hope that you would find it. Rest well._ ” The note was signed simply with a flourishing letter R, which made her smile, and for a moment she held the note to her chest as though she could absorb and be comforted by his concern by some kind of osmosis.

She took a breath, and set down the note to pick up the gel, and raising her eyes to the mirror, winced slightly. He had not been exaggerating when he told her that she was getting a bruise. The side of her jaw, and upward to her cheek was blossoming purple and black in places, and she squeezed her eyes shut as the sudden, though brief, memory assaulted her.

_He was tall. Standing easily head and shoulders above the top of her head, and massively built, with dark, short cropped hair, and an arrogant face, which snarled at her, cruelly as anger flashed in his eyes._

_“Bitch!” he spat, before the back of his hand swung upward, and hard against her mouth and cheek. She flew backwards, to slide, winded by the impact, against the wall._

“No,” she whimpered, covering her cheek with her own hand as if she could shield herself from the memory. She felt defeated, afraid anew, and wished that Gold was still in the house; that she could go to him, and tell him what she knew… but… no. How could she? What would he _think_?

The circular thought process stole what little energy her rest had given her, and she leaned heavily against the counter, with trembling fingers moving on automatic to carefully apply the gel to the parts of her face that were sore and bruised. Then she reached for the note again, taking it with her as she made her way back to the bedroom, slipped off the pajama pants, and settled back into the bed.

She carefully folded the note, and kept it in her hand as she closed her eyes and let sleep take her again.

* * *

After Gold had beaten down, in a verbal sense, every single one of Whale’s absurd objections to his request for a house call, once he’d explained the problem, he felt much calmer, and far more ready to speak with the second person on his list of people to see. He expected this visit to be far more pleasant and relaxed in nature, and felt more like his usual, confidence self as he approached the diner.

He didn’t take his usual seat as he entered though, moving instead to sit further inside the diner in one of the booths. The same, expectant, tense silence followed his entrance, the low murmur of customer conversation only resuming once he had taken his seat, and had not approached any of them. Barely a moment later, a server appeared at his side, and greeted him cheerfully.

“Coffee as usual, Mister Gold?” she asked, waiting for his nod of confirmation before beginning to turn away, to go and fetch a coffee pot and his cup.

He reached out, ready to catch her sleeve, but needn’t have, She immediately turned back as he said, “And… would you mind asking Miss Lucas if she could spare me a moment of her time?”

“Of course, I’ll…” she gestured over to where Miss Lucas was just coming back from clearing a couple of the front tables. After serving Gold his coffee, she went to join Miss Lucas and to help her unload the dishes from the tray onto the counter.

He watched them speak in hushed tones, each of them glancing his way in turns, a frown crossing Miss Lucas’ face before she gave her co-worker’s arm a squeeze and walked over to Gold’s table.

“What do you want, Gold.” she asked, in an unusually petulant tone of voice.

“Miss Lucas,” he said mildly, ignoring her attitude. “I have a proposal for you,”

He gestured to the seat opposite him in the booth. Miss Lucas gave him a sincerely ‘old fashioned’ look, and he chuckled sarcastically and met her eyes with an equally, highly skeptical, ‘I’m-letting-you-down-gently-here’ expression, and after a moment continued, “No, seriously, there’s something I’d like you to do for me.”

Miss Lucas folded her arms.

“Well,” she began, “So long as it’s not illegal, immoral, or just plain… icky… I’m listening.”

“Please,” he once more indicated the seat opposite him, saying nothing more until she slipped into it. He watched her for a moment over the rim of his coffee cup, realizing with some surprise that he felt a certain degree of goodwill and trust toward her already. Perhaps that was why he had chosen _her_ to approach for help in this manner.

She raised an eyebrow at him and said, “Look, I have work to do, so unless you tell me what it is you want, I--”

“I need your help,” he said softly, and watched as her eyebrows shot up in surprise. Before she could say anything, he explained, “And I hope I can count on your for your absolute discretion.”

Miss Lucas nodded, still apparently rendered somewhat speechless by his reason for approaching her.

“I have a young lady as house guest currently; someone who was brought to me to keep her safe after she was a witness to some… rather unpleasant violence,” he began.

“What!” Miss Lucas said, all but throwing her hand against her mouth in surprise. “Here? In Storybrooke!”

“Well… no, not _in_ Storybrooke, but she was brought _to_ Storybrooke.”

“Like… ‘Witness Protection,’ or something?”

He smiled wryly, and then let out a soft, regretful sigh, before he said, “Something like that.”

There was silence for a while, and he was more than fine to allow that as he, himself, sat in quiet contemplation of a past on which he’d turned his back. It seemed, however, it was not quite finished haunting his present.

“So…?” Miss Lucas asked eventually.

“Unfortunately, she was injured, and as a result her clothing is quite ruined.” He found it was an effort to keep his voice even, devoid of intonation as he tried to simply deliver the facts, and he was saved from having to further elaborate when Miss Lucas’ quick mind caught on.

“You want me to get her some stuff,” she said, sounding, the thought, as though she appreciated his trust. Then she shrugged, “Sure. I’ll need to know--”

Gold reached into his inside pocket and pulled out a piece of paper that was wrapped around a number of folded bills, and slipped it across the table toward Ruby. On the paper, he had written the size from the label inside of Miss French’s shirt.

“She is small, and slight, if that helps,” he added, letting his eyes flick closed for a fraction of a second longer than perhaps he should, as he brought to mind the moment he had offered comfort, held her in his arms. After a moment, he blinked to recenter his mind in the present, and added, “Please, if you could get her what you think she might need, in the short term.”

Miss Lucas nodded, then asked, “You want me to bring it by the shop later?”

Gold shook his head. “I won’t be opening the shop today,” he said, then voiced a surprising thought that came into his head, “If it wouldn’t be an imposition, could you bring them to my home? Stay for dinner if you wish. It won’t be anything complicated, just… wholesome.”

Miss Lucas looked momentarily uncomfortable, then a light softened her expression a little and she said, “At least that way, I get to meet her, right? Give her the stuff?”

“I believe she would appreciate that,” he answered. “Does seven o’clock suit?”

“Seven’s fine,” she confirmed, and slipped the folded piece of paper and the money it contained into the pocket of her apron, adding. “I take it this is all, hush hush? Need to know?”

“Indeed discretion is essential,” he confirmed. “I trust you can manage that.”

“Your secret is safe with me, Mister Gold.”

He simply raised his eyebrow at that, and picked up his cup to finish his coffee. As Miss Lucas walked away, he settled back in his seat. He’d told Miss Lucas he didn’t intend to open the shop, but he decided to pick up his ledgers. He would work on them just as well in the comfort of his own home, as in the shop.

* * *

When Bell next woke, although being incredibly stiff, with her hands and her shoulder, and the slice across the front of her body still feeling more painful than she cared to think about, at least it wasn’t in a breathless panic as before.

Fearing that she would be unable to sleep later, in spite of her lingering tiredness, if she didn’t get up and do something, she slipped on the silk pajama pants, and decided to go downstairs and make tea. Mister Gold had told her she should make herself at home, and she remembered the books she had seen gracing the shelves in the lounge, and those in his study, too. She relished the thought of sitting down with a cup of tea, and one of those books. Perhaps she’d be able to curl up in one of the chairs by the fire.

With a brief stop in the bathroom, where she discovered a robe, deep blue in color and in a silk equally as soft as the shirt, she made her way down the stairs, surrounded by the opulence of that silk, and smiled to herself as she reached the hallway, and headed for the kitchen.

The house was silent, except for the ticking of the large grandfather clock, and the soft crackle of the fire that still burned in the fireplace, though carefully shielded behind an ornate fireguard. She stood for a moment to admire the glint of gold within the lines and intricate scrolling design that had been teased from the wrought iron of which it was made. She glanced around then. Everything she saw in the house was beautiful, antique, lending a kind of… timelessness of the house, _and_ it’s owner.

She paused in her steps as that realization passed over her. It was true; part of what she felt in him; of what had drawn her to him so acutely, in spite of his handsome face and his graying hair, or perhaps - more likely - because of it, he exuded an air of timelessness and boundless experience.

She crossed the threshold of the kitchen, feeling a new blush coloring her face as she caught sight of the table, and chairs around it where she had been, just for a moment, held in his embrace. The warmth, the comfort, but bubbling beneath the surface, and wrapping around them both, the sense of connection, slowly weaving something more.

A sudden unexpected sound from beyond the front door made her start, and she spun around, the flush draining from her face as her heart suddenly jumped to a frantic pace. She shrank around the door frame, flattening her back to the wall, trying to slow her breathing, her ears alert for any sound. There was nothing more, silence again descended. This time it felt hot and thick… and Belle felt her chest tighten, as if the air were solid, and her head started to swim a little as she held her breath.

When no sound came for several more minutes, she started to relax. She berated herself for being so jumpy. It was probably just something outside on the road. A car, or something clattering along outside. Maybe even the mail-person doing their rounds. She shook her head again, and set about making the tea.

* * *

Gold was gathering together the the folders of paperwork and the ledgers that he had decided he was going to work on at home, in order to be sure he would be there when Miss French woke, when the bell above the shop door sounded its merry tune.

Gold sighed in irritation. As usual, Storybrooke’s residents ignored the presence of the ‘closed’ sign, in favor of simply trying the door and walking on in. Not for the first time, Gold wondered if he _should_ actually start locking the door, in order to ensure he wouldn’t be disturbed. With another sigh, he turned and pushed aside the curtain that separated the back room from the retail space with the back of his hand.

“I’m sorry, we’re clo…” His voice trailed off as he caught sight of the visitor’s blond hair, and red leather jacket, and a bubble of sarcastic pleasure rose in his chest. “Sheriff Swan,” he greeted her, “What an unfortunate surprise.”

“Is it, Gold?” she returned, without any hint of discomfiture at his words. “For whom, you or me?”

“Well, that depends,” he growled softly, “on the reason why one of Storybrooke’s finest either cannot read a simple sign, or chose to ignore it, and thereby trespassed on--”

“Ah, but, let me stop you there,” the sheriff interrupted. “It would only be trespass if I didn’t have probable cause.”

“Why, Sheriff Swan,” he said, placing a hand in exaggerated mockery over his chest. “I didn’t know you ca--”

“Save it, Gold,” she snapped, we both know this is about you, at the hospital, threatening Doctor Whale.”

“Threatening Doctor Whale?” As he spoke he replayed the incident from that morning and tried to work out who might have witnessed the minor altercation he’d had with Whale that morning, and more to the point, what they thought they might hope to achieve by reporting it to the sheriff’s office. Surely it wouldn’t have been Whale himself?

“And this is where you tell me you’ve been here all morning and so couldn’t possibly have--”

“No, no,” Gold interrupted, allowing his voice to slip into a concerned register, certain it would go some way to disarming Miss Swan. “I was at the hospital, and I did go to speak with Doctor Whale, but…” He shrugged, attempting to look confused.

“...And you didn’t throw a gurney at him, I suppose then.”

Gold made a face of sudden understanding and said, “Oh, Well, I did collide with a gurney as I tried to catch up to him in the hallway. I’ve quite the bruised thigh to show for it, if you’d care to see.”

As he spoke he slipped off his jacket, and began to reach for the belt at his waist, and watched as Emma Swan threw out her hand in a halting gesture.

“That’s quite all right, that won’t be necessary,” she said.

“You’re sure,” he asked, his hands still at his belt.

“Yes, quite sure,” she said, and seemed relieved when his hands moved away from his belt, and he slipped his jacket back on, fastening it carefully.

“So, is there anything else I can help you with?” he asked, gesturing around the shop. “We _are_ still closed, but if there were anything you might need…”

“It’s fine, Gold, really,” she said, then, “May I ask…” she paused and he tilted his head in a gesture meant to tell her to continue, “What was it you needed to speak with Doctor Whale about.”

“A uh… personal matter,” Gold said quietly, but uninvitingly. “One I’d rather not discuss, thank you.”

“Right,” the sheriff answered. “Well, I’ll… let you go on your way, but Gold, if I find out you’re up to something…”

“I assure you,” he said, with a quiet menace and a viper smile.”If I were up to something that you needed to be aware of… you’d be the last to know. Good day, Sheriff Swan.”

He stood in place for a long time, watching her walk away, waiting for the tinkling of the bell to settle again as she left the store, and then for several more long, deep breaths, before he moved, letting his uneven stride take him to the back room to pick up those things he had set aside to carry home with him. It was time, _past_ time. He had had more than enough of Storybrooke’s residents for one day.

* * *

As she stood in the kitchen, waiting for the kettle to boil the water for the tea, Belle couldn’t help but let her mind wander, wondering what it might be like - day in, day out - knowing what time he might come home from his errands, making tea for them to share.

She chuckled at herself a moment later. It certainly wasn’t something that was likely to happen any time soon - not given how much trouble she was having even preparing the tea things for herself - but she found the idea of doing it more than appealing.

Whether it was the fact that the sudden sound disturbed her daydreaming, or that it was the second such sound she’d heard since coming downstairs and she was still afraid, the scuffle she heard, followed by the sudden almost angry thud, and dark shape that appeared to throw itself against the kitchen window nearby, made Belle jump almost violently and loosened her grasp on the cup she was just taking down from the cabinet to set on the tea tray.

It fell, almost in slow motion, the rim catching on the stainless steel side of the sink before dropping to the softer bottom of the plastic bowl within. Forgetting her fear of what might have been the cause of the disturbance, Belle all but lunged forward again as though she could retroactively protect the cup from damage. Her heart sank toward dismay when she saw it, and the small, triangular slip of porcelain sitting side by side in the bowl.

She raised her gaze to the window then, almost accusingly, and met the cold amber stare of the black and grey cat which stood on the outside ledge, a few brown feathers still caught in its maw.

At first, Belle laughed, though she couldn’t say at what she was laughing, and after a moment or two the laughter became a hiccup, and the hiccup a sob, before, weeping openly she reached for the chipped cup, and cradled it to her chest. She sank into a seat at the kitchen table, where tears continued to fall over her cheeks as she held the cup as if it were a tiny living thing, and she had just murdered it.

* * *

Gold was gratified, as he pulled into his driveway, to see that his associate, whom he had called very early that morning, had delivered on his promise, and a large box of fresh food and groceries of many kinds beside had been left on the front porch. It was unusual for him not to purchase his own groceries because he was so particular, but under these circumstances - and his trust in MacCalmain - he was willing to make an exception.

He set down the papers and ledgers he had brought from the shop on top of the box and then, having unlocked the door, carried the box inside.

As he entered, he felt compelled to call out his presence, loud enough to be heard if Miss French were awake, but not loud enough to wake her if she should still be sleeping. When he received no response, he assumed the latter, and continued on toward the kitchen, still carrying the box with all its contents.

It wasn’t until he came within a step or two of the kitchen when he heard it. A slight, warbling kind of sound, part way between a sniff and a moan. Everything he was became instantly alert, as his stomach dropped toward the floor and his heart sped up in preparation for combatting whatever assailant may still be in the house. He could see only the line of cabinets on the left hand wall of the kitchen, and part of the sink. His eyes took in the kitchen utensils and other items that were atop those cabinets to evaluate which of them could be used as a weapon if necessary.

Then he heard the sound again, and he realized the origin of the sound, and without any further hesitation almost propelled himself into the kitchen. He stopped almost at once, and frowned, letting out the pent up breath as he saw Miss French, sitting at the table, holding something in her cupped hands, her face we with tears.

“Miss French?” he said softly, trying to draw her attention, but there was nothing. No recognition, no response. Tentatively, he reached out and barely brushed his fingertips over her forearm, where the loose sleeve of his shirt lay rolled up. She whimpered, and then looked up at him. Her eyes were the ocean, reflecting the clouds of storms from her heart and her head. He swallowed hard, moving to reach for her again, when she spoke. Her voice was lost, as she explained, shaken and shaky. His heart clenched.

“There was a noise,” she began, “I was making tea by the window…” She never once seemed to blink, or take her eyes from his face, though it seemed, she couldn’t, or wouldn’t quite meet his eyes. “...and then a dark shape… it hit the window, I was frightened. Just a cat.” she told him, the word bursting from her in a half laugh-half sob. “It fell. I tried to catch it but it fell… I dropped it and…”

He shook his head then, breaking his own paralysis, for a moment confusion running through him. He turned her chair, much as he had done earlier that morning, and crouching down, gently took her hands into his, setting aside the teacup she was still clinging to. Holding her hands carefully and running his thumb over the exposed backs of her hands, between the lines of tape that held the dressings in place.

“Miss French,” he said, and even as he brow creased slightly, added, “Belle… it’s all right. You’re safe. I promise you. No one can touch you here.”

Her fingers curled around his. He was certain she was gripping him as tightly as she could, but given the circumstances, that wasn’t very, and he could already see the pain the movement was causing her.

“Relax… please, you’re hurting,” he murmured softly, shifting his hold to her wrists, still gentle, still supportive rather than restrictive. She appeared not to have heard him, seemed to be in her own world.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, “I didn’t… it was an accident it…”

He watched as her gaze slipped from his to the kitchen table beside them, and to the cup that remained where he had left it when he took it from Belle’s hands. For a moment, he frowned in confusion as he glanced that way. Then he noticed the rim, and the small chip in the gold painted rim and everything, somehow, fell into place.

“Belle…” he half sang her name as he released her and tenderly cupped her face in his hands, bringing her gaze back to his, as he crouched in front of her.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered again, and of their own volition, his fingertips caressed her cheek, as if he could soothe the bruise and take away this… state of fear to which she had become a prisoner. He knew it wasn’t her. He’d _seen_ she was brave, and stronger than most _men_ he knew, and wanted nothing more than for her to find herself again… well… almost nothing more.

“It’s just a cup,” he said, earnest but firm, because it _was_ just a cup. Sure it was one of a set, but it was hardly irreplaceable, and even if it had been, it wouldn’t matter.

His thumb tenderly brushed away the wetness beneath her eyes, which closed at his touch, and his heart and stomach lurched to meet and fill him with a warmth he had denied himself for so long, and which he had promised himself he would never again indulge. He would not take advantage of her. Not when she needed his protection.

“Just…” she began, and trailed off as her eyes opened and met with his.

“Yes?” he prompted, the word barely a breath as he unconsciously moved toward her in spite of himself.

“Please, just hold me,” she said, and must have seen the conflict in his eyes because she added, “Don’t tell yourself it’s wrong. Don’t tell yourself you shouldn’t. Don’t tell yourself I don’t know what I’m saying, just… hold me.”

Slowly, he drew her to her feet, taking a step closer as he did, and releasing her from his tender grasp, tucked her head against his shoulder - mindful of her bruised cheek - as he enfolded her in his embrace. He let out a breath, and held her tighter as she wrapped her arms around him, clinging to him, pressing tight against him.

“Don’t let go.”

It was a breath against the side of his neck, her plea, and for a moment it was all that he could do to breathe as a sense of destiny settled over him; the idea that every step of his life so far had been toward this moment, this woman, and all that was to come at her side. He swallowed, and looked down at her at the exact same moment she looked up at him, and he gave her a soft smile, allowing her a gentle freedom as she began to pull away.

“Come on,” he suggested, offering her his arm. “Let’s go see what it was Orchard knocked over this time.”

“Orchard?” she said, blushing as he reached out with his free hand to tuck an errant strand of her hair behind her ear.

“The cat,” he said. “For some reason he seems to have some kind of vendetta against the potted plants on my patio.”

She chuckled; such a sweet sound that it brought a wider smile to the hard line of his mouth as the two of them walked, together, to the back door.

* * *

Ruby had been a mix of curious and nervous all day, since Gold had asked her for the favor, though it wasn’t the favor alone that did it. To her knowledge, no one had ever been invited to dinner at Gold’s house before, and the intense curiosity she had burning in the pit of her stomach - or was that the nervousness - was to wonder what she might see beyond the threshold.

She’d walked past several times in the past, and as a teen, so long ago now it was almost forgotten, had once been dared to knock on his door on Halloween and ask for candy. She’d never admitted it to anyone, but she had taken that dare - once everyone had gone, of course - and had been completely taken by surprise when he not only answered the door to her knock, but had given her candy, and engaged with her in an interesting conversation. It had been the day when the seed of her disbelief in him as the town ‘monster,’ the town’s cruel hearted landlord, had been planted. Even though she felt a healthy and respectful kind of… caution where the man was concerned, she nearly always had a smile or a pleasant word for him when he came into the diner for his morning coffee.

Still, as evening fell and the wind became stiffer it seemed, the further she walked along the road toward his house, she began to wonder what the hell she was doing as Granny’s words followed her with each step she made. _He’s up to something, my girl, you mark my words._

She sighed as she reached the gate, carrying the bags in which the purchases she’d made at Gold’s behest (and those she had added on her own initiative), were safely nestled, ready to be given to his visitor. She had to admit to feeling a great deal of curiosity about her as well. What kind of woman would find herself comfortable staying with him.

Even as the words crossed her mind, she berated herself for them. Who was she to say the sort of man he was behind closed doors when she knew that even _she_ had seen a slightly different side of him all those years past.

She reached out then, pushing open the gate, and saw then, the same, lurking shape in the shadows of the garden. She’d seen the man then too, and had since come to know that it was MacCalmain, whom Storybrooke rumour named as some kind of associate or employee of Gold’s; a gardener perhaps, but then, who does gardening in the dark, as it was slowly becoming.

She shrugged the thought away, and made her way up the pathway to the steps, and then up to the porch, to knock on the heavy wooden door. Then, she waited.

* * *

The pain in her hands and her shoulder had finally subsided to a dull ache again after the visit of the doctor with whom Gold had arranged a house call - as per the deal she had made with him. She knew she shouldn’t really be cross with him, after all she had agreed to it, and she knew his insistence on it had only been for her own safety, but she hadn’t been able to help pouting at him.

He had, to his own credit, more or less ignored her expression of petulance, and she was certain it was because he understood just how much she did not want to see a doctor. Doctor’s meant official, and official meant…

As though he knew what she was thinking, Gold set a fresh cup of tea on the table beside the chair in which she sat, curled up beside the fire, and said softly, “You’re safe. I promise you that Doctor Whale is not going to tell _anyone_ you’re here.”

“How do you _know_ that?” she asked him.

“I know,” he answered flatly.

“But--”

“Don’t make me spell it out, Belle, please, just trust me when I tell you he won’t.”

“But _you_ don’t trust him,” she said, realizing as she spoke the words that they were the truth.

He sighed. “No. No I don’t,” he answered, “But even as much as that’s true, I also know… that in this he won’t cross me.” He offered her a smile. “So please… try to relax a little, hmm?”

She sighed softly, and looked up at him, craning her neck a little until he took the hint and sat down in the chair on the other side of the fireplace. A strange kind of peace had descended over her since he’d found her in the kitchen, after he’d held her. After the steady, if not slow, beat of his heart, heard from the contact she had with him as she rested her head against the front of his shoulder, had soothed her. It was as if she knew now that the man tasked with protecting her was not heartless, nor a ruthless killer, but a man, with a man’s feelings, and the strength and concern with which to make sure she _was_ safe, from her own inner demons as well.

“I’m sorry,” she told him softly. “It’s just that everything is such a jumble in my mind. I don’t know how to feel most of the time. How can I make sense of anything if I don’t remember what happened - not clearly.”

“It’s only been a day,” he said. “Give yourself time, and it’ll come. And when it does, when you’re _ready_ to talk about it, I can help you… if that’s what you want.”

“And what about you,” she asked, briefly looking him up and down. The smart suit he was wearing hugged his form perfectly, and the deep purple shirt, with the even darker tie, held in place by the gold clip… it was all immaculately tailored, and gave him the impression of being one of the priceless antiques with which he surrounded himself. “What do _you_ want? Why did you agree to allow Agent Milnor to bring me to you?”

He chuckled softly. “Ah, thereby hangs a tale,” he said.

“And one I think you’re not going to tell me,” she said.

“No,” he agreed. “At least not now.”

“Then… when?”

“One day,” he said, turning to stare into the fire, watching the flames dancing over the logs as if they tried to catch someone that stood just beyond their reach. “Perhaps,” he added and then with an honest expression on his face added, “Maybe never.”

“But you’ll tell me why, even if you don’t want to tell me what happened, because you find yourself wanting to be honest with me,” she told him.

“Yes. You do have that quality, Miss French.” he said, and she pouted again.

“I thought we’d gone past that,” she said with a sniff. Then, after a pause asked, “Well?”

“He saved my life,” he said, and glanced at his phone as it bleeped and drew him back to his feet. “A long time ago,” he added as he began to move toward the hallway just as a knock sounded at the door. “I do believe this must be our guest. You’ll like her, I think.”

Belle sat up a little in the chair, wrapping the robe she wore more tightly around her, and trying not to feel self conscious again. She knew there was little she could do to change the situation, she doubted that her own clothes, her blouse at least, was beyond saving. The pants, perhaps, would be all right with a good wash, but the rest…

She looked up at the sound of voices, Gold and a woman’s voice, no doubt exchanging a greeting, before the two of them came into the lounge. The woman was around her own age, and tall, with long hair that fell to mid way down her back, with the slightest hint of red highlights. Her face was kind, and Belle felt the same kindness flowing from her in the smile that came to her face as she entered the lounge.

“Miss Lucas,” Gold said, “This is Miss French. Miss French, Miss Lucas.” Then to the newcomer he asked, “Can I get you some tea?”

“Thank you,” she said, not quite absently, but Belle could see that Miss Lucas’ attention was already focussed her way.

“Excuse me,” Gold craved, with almost a slight obiecence to them both, before he left the room, and for a moment Belle imagined him as a gentleman from a Regency Romance, and she let out a little chuckle.

“Is he _always_ like this?” she asked.

“Formal?” Miss Lucas asked, and came closer to her, to settle herself in the seat Gold had vacated, “Pretty much. He’s developed an art form out of insulting people politely.” She grinned, and added, “My name’s Ruby.”

“Belle,” Belle answered with a smile, “I’m happy you’re here.”

Ruby’s smile widened, though there was sympathy in her eyes that Belle could clearly see, and it made her almost want to hide. Self-consciously, she covered her cheek with a bandaged hand, and Ruby shifted in her seat.

“I’m sorry,” she said quietly, “Kind of hard to miss, but it’ll fade, I promise you. You have some arnica?”

“Yes,” Belle answered, warming even more to the woman in front of her. “R-- Mister Gold gave me some this morning.”

“Good to know the man’s not a complete Philistine when it comes to--” she stopped herself, and Belle couldn’t help but wonder what the ending of the sentence would have been.

“He’s been very good to me,” Belle said. The whole of her body relaxed of its own volition, and her eyes too, took on a gentle glow. She saw Ruby lift an eyebrow, and blushed in response.

“Really?” Ruby asked, and Belle’s blush only deepened. “Well, he erm… he asked me to get some stuff for you; clothes, mainly, but… I took it on myself to get you a few essentials, you know… girls' stuff?”

She handed over one of the two large shopping bags she had brought with her, and looking inside, Belle found herself very touched as Ruby’s thoughtfulness, as she noticed some neutral colored make ups, make up remover and moisturizer, and also a pack each of tampons and sanitary towels.

“Thank you.” she said gratefully.

“I wasn’t sure which you’d prefer, so I got both,” Ruby said, evidently guessing at the reason for her sudden emotion. She handed over the other bag then and added, “Gold gave me the size he read from your blouse, so I think everything should fit. I put in a few of my skirts that I don’t wear any more. They might be a little longer on you than me, but I don’t suppose that’d be a bad thing.”

Belle raised a querying eyebrow, looking at Ruby who was dressed in a mid-length pencil skirt with tights or leggings beneath it, and a red and white plaid shirt over what looked like a white vest. She looked very smart.

Ruby chuckled, and said, “Yeah. Ask anyone you like. This is unusual for me.” she tugged at the skirt. “I usually go shorter.”

“Ah,” Belle said, comprehending. “Thank you. This is all very kind of you.”

“Girls together, right?” Ruby said.

“Right.” Belle said with a smile.

Gold returned then, with a fresh cup of tea for Belle, and one for Ruby.

“Apologies for the wait,” he said to the both of them, an almost smile on his face, “I had to attend to the meat. It will be perhaps another thirty minutes, or thereabouts.”

“No rush,” Belle told him softly, finding that he was right, that she was enjoying Ruby’s company, She reached out and laid a soft touch on his arm as he set her tea down, and added softly, “Thank you.”

He met her eyes for the briefest of moments, and she saw there softness, a gentle sense of longing, and beneath it, a harder flash of something brittle, needful, passionate. She took in a sharp breath, and swallowed.

“Most welcome,” he murmured, and Belle felt a flash of desire pulse deep inside her in answer to his tone.

He straightened up then, and once more excused himself, and as Belle looked over at Ruby, she found her looking, somewhat strangely, in her direction.

* * *

All in all, Gold thought that the evening had been a success. He had allowed plenty of time for Miss Lucas and Belle to get to know one another better, and had been the epitome of politeness during the time they all ate together. He’d even managed to curb his natural sarcasm for most of the evening.

They ate in the dining room, and although the setting was more formal than the kitchen would have been, the addition of Miss Lucas’s company and conversation, and as noticeably more relaxed Belle had become as the evening had progressed, Gold was glad he had invited Miss Lucas to dine with them.

He was surprised that even _he_ had relaxed as much as he had, and mused that it felt as though Belle - and once again he silently berated himself for the forwardness of thinking of her by her given name - had been with him for more than just the space of a single day.

At the end of the evening, he and Belle had showed Miss Lucas to the door, and with his blessing, arrangements were made that Miss Lucas could visit with Belle whenever either of them wished it, and Belle and Miss Lucas embraced as they said goodnight, and even though she had refused his offer of a ride home, as he closed the door behind Miss Lucas, he nodded into the shadowy garden, knowing that MacCalmain would follow to ensure she reached her home safely. Then, he knew, his silent associate would return to secure the perimeter of his home.

He smiled at Belle as he closed and locked the door, and she smiled in return, and then yawned, apologizing quietly.

“I think perhaps the events of today have caught up with us both,” he said, reaching out to turn off the porch light. “Perhaps cocoa, and then to bed?”

He felt his belly tighten for a moment as he spoke the words, but pushed the feeling away, trying to remain calm and impassive. It was a battle he knew he was losing, and if he were honest - with himself at least - he wasn’t sure he even wanted to fight.

“Cocoa sounds marvellous,” she said, “but let me?”

He frowned softly, “Are you sure?”

“Perfectly,” she said. “I promise I’ll be careful, but you’ve already done so much today.” He opened his mouth to tell her it had been his pleasure, but she held up her hand. “Please, go and sit by the fire. I think even like _this_ ,” and she held up her hands, “I can manage a couple of cups of cocoa.”

She reached out to give his arm a little squeeze, and to nudge him in the direction of the lounge, and he paused in the doorway to watch as she walked along the hallway to the kitchen, and the ice around his heart continued to thaw.

With a sigh, Gold turned and made his way to his habitual seat beside the fire. As he did, he unconsciously shrugged off his jacket and laid it on the back of the couch as he passed. When he’d received the first, panicked call from Milnor late the previous night, he had been dubious about agreeing to the man’s request. Yet, here he was, _wanting_ to fulfil his promise with _everything_ he was, but he was a lousy prospect for anything else. After what she’d already been through, and - he sighed again - could likely face again if they happened to catch up with her, we couldn’t put her through that. He couldn’t.

“Penny for them?” 

He looked up as Belle’s voice came from part way into the lounge, and he got to his feet immediately, offering a smile and coming to take the cocoa from her injured hands and carry them to put them on the chairs beside the fire.

“Oh, nothing constructive,” he said with a wry, sad smile. “You?”

She shook her head. “Nothing really, just… how nice this evening was. How _normal._ ”

He laughed at that, a hollow laugh at best and asked, “So, you call hiding away in a little nowhere town at the arse end of Maine, with a man you barely know, ‘normal.’?”

“I didn’t mean that,” she said, giving him a look. “I meant, the three of us, having dinner, talking about… food, and friends, and… and… books, it just felt comfortable.”

“That I’ll grant you,” he said, with a sigh, as he stared into the fireplace for a while, contemplating whether to put on another log… but no. It was late, and they were headed for bed, and if he stayed up with her much longer he’d want to be closer, to hold her, explore all those things he had vowed to deny himself, and then take her to his _own_ bed and bare his soul to her in the most intimate of ways.

“I’d… I’d like to know you,” her soft, tentative voice intruded on his self recriminations.

“No,” he said, rather more harshly than he intended, and Belle recoiled into her seat, and with pursed lips, downturned eyes and another soft sigh, he said, “I rather doubt that you would.”

She shook her head though, and insisted, “Look, Rein… neither of us know how long I’m going to need to stay here, and… and if you’re the only one I’m going to see in all that time… couldn’t I… would it be so _bad_ to know you?”

He chuckled, hoping she wouldn’t see that it was his attempt to hide his seriousness. “You might think so… if you came to know my weaknesses.”

She chuckled, and took a sip of her hot chocolate, making a small sound of pleasure that went right through him, like heat to his loins.

He took a sip of his own cocoa, and found himself needing to stifle a similar sound, as the flavor of it exploded on his tongue.

“You like it?” she asked, and he nodded.

“Very much,” he said, “If you’re not careful, I'll put you in charge of making the cocoa from now on.”

“I wouldn’t mind,” she told him.

They lapsed into an almost comfortable silence while they each enjoyed their drinks. He tried not to watch her too closely, but found his eyes drawn to the quick, furtive darts of her tongue across her lips to catch the drips of chocolate that escaped the cup, his belly tightening as he thought of capturing that tongue with his own, and to prevent further thought and give himself away entirely as his body began to react, he broke the silence and said, “I will have to go into town tomorrow, open up the shop - at least for a few hours.”

“Shop?” she asked.

“I… own and run the town’s pawn shop. I also sell antiques. I don’t know how, but somehow the two just seemed to work side by side,” he said.

“I wish I could see it,” she said but he shook his head.

“No. I’m sorry, Belle, but I can’t risk anyone seeing you and putting two and two together.” he said, “Sooner or later, your father’s going to offer some kind of reward for information as to where you are, and it would only take one person reporting they suspected your presence to--”

He stopped with a frown as she held up her hand, in a gesture for him to stop.

“What is it?” he asked. “Is something wrong?”

“Just that… I very much doubt my father would care very much one way or the other - unless my being missing or not would have an effect on his campaign for re-election.”

“Are you saying that he’s somehow… involved in all of this? In collusion?”

She sighed, shaking her head, but he saw doubt in her eyes, even as she said, “I don’t know _what_ I’m saying.”

“Belle,” he started, and set down his cup after draining the last drop of cocoa from within. “You’re tired, you’ve had a harrowing, stressful day. The last thing you need to be trying to do is to figure out what was going on. Not yet.” He stood up, placed the fireguard in front of the dying fire, and held out his hand. “Let yourself rest. I know I mean to.”

She drained her cup, and set it down, before reaching for the bags that Miss Lucas had brought for her, which were sitting beside the chair. He beat her to it, and picked them up, before taking her hand and placing it on his forearm.

“Allow me to see you up to bed,” he said, and at her nod, led them both from the room, turning out the lights as they went, and up the staircase to the landing, and then to her door, where he stopped, and set down the bags just beyond the threshold.

“Are you going to come and tuck me in,” she asked playfully, then giggled when he raised an eyebrow at the suggestion.

“Rest well,” he said softly, “And… if there’s anything you need…”

“I’ll call,” she said as he trailed off.

He nodded, then began to turn to make his way across the landing to his own room.

“Rein,” she called out softly, and he stopped and turned back to face her. As he did, she caught his upper arm for balance and stood on tiptoes, to place the feather-light softness of a kiss just beside his lips.

A burst of energy, akin to electricity, rushed through him at the touch, and almost automatically, he reached out with his free hand to cup her elbow, steadying her, and then released her arm to slip his hand onto her waist, and to her back, his fingers spreading as he did, to provide the greatest support as she leaned against him. Almost breathless from the moment, he tipped his head to look down to her. She turned her head, however, but not before he noticed the redness in the otherwise alabaster skin of her cheek.

Her mouth was at his ear, as she whispered, “Thank you… for this evening; for everything today.”

“My pleasure,” he answered, somewhat hoarsely, and then bid her, “Goodnight… Belle.”

“Goodnight,” she answered, “and sleep well.”

She pulled away, settling back down, and retreating into her room, and after the space of a heartbeat, closed the door.

Gold leaned his forehead against the cool wood of the door, until he could get his breathing back under control.

* * *

Belle stood, trembling slightly, her head against the door, the breath shaking in and out of her body. What was she doing, practically throwing herself at the man, almost aching with want, a deep, unaccustomed feeling deep inside?

She listened for a while, almost imagined she could hear him breathing against the other side of the door and her hand hovered over the handle, indecision racing through her along with awakening desire. She wanted to throw open the door, reach out to him; hold him tightly and _hang_ the consequences, but propriety smothered her want, her need, and she stood unmoving and in the following moment, she heard the soft tread of his feet and the counterpoint tap of his cane move away, across the hall. A door opened, and then closed again, and she wondered what he might do if she crossed the hall to him.

With a sigh she stepped back from the door, crossed to unpack the clothing that Ruby had brought for her, some of it carefully used hand me downs, the clothing Ruby had chosen to give to her. The rest of the clothing was obviously new, and seemed hand tailored, and she suspected it must have cost a fortune. She looked up again from where she’d sat on the bed and toward where she knew Gold had taken himself to bed. She could hear the run of water through the pipes in the house, a comforting sound, in many ways, and she tried _not_ to imagine him preparing for bed, as with a sigh, she, herself began to do, setting the clothes almost tenderly into the top drawer of the dresser once she returned from her bathroom, and settled herself into bed.

Her dreams, when they came, were a jumbled mess of the present, and hints of the past.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story was written for @killingkueen on Tumblr for the 2019 Secret Santa. It took on a life of it's own, so I had to split it into chapters, but it's all here. :)

That day became two, became three, and then a week… more. Gold and Belle settled into an easy kind of routine, more and more as Belle’s injuries healed. When he returned in the evenings, at first he would be presented with tea, and later, the scent of dinner cooking wafted over him. No matter how many times Gold told her she did not have to do so, that it wasn’t what he expected of her, she would smile sweetly and tell him, “I _want_ to. It’s all right.”

They spent their evenings in conversations beside the fire, talking about music, or reading, or science; discussing his expertise in antiques, and little by little, he learned about her life with her family before everything that had happened - how her father had been nothing but obsessed by his political career, and that Belle felt he had come to see her mother, and particularly his only daughter as a liability; a distraction from the political agenda he was pushing on the people of Massachusetts. Gold developed his own theory, especially since she always referred to herself in the third person.

Still, she had not mentioned what had happened after she and her mother were taken, and Gold knew that, more often than not, her dreams were disturbed.

He never went to her at night, fearing he, himself, would cause more harm than good if he did, and neither did she come to him, when she woke from a nightmare. Nor had there been a repeat of the not-quite-chaste kiss she had given him that first evening, yet from time to time, as they shared a last cup of cocoa in an evening, he could _feel_ the tension, still present, still bubbling between them, if only either one of their restraint should snap...

Then, one day as he came back from work a little early, he found her sitting in the lounge, just staring, uncharacteristically unseeing, at the page of a book. 

Gold sat gingerly beside her, where she’d settled on the couch, rather than her usual chair, and carefully took the book from her, glancing at the title, and the page on which she was so fixated. It seemed to him to be unremarkable; not a reason for her current state of detachment.

“Is something wrong?” he asked, taking a breath before reaching out to take hold of her now, unbandaged hand.

She jumped, effectively pulling her hand from his, and sensitive to her needs he did not reach to her again.

“Rein, you’re here,” she answered, “I’m sorry, I didn’t make the tea yet, I--”

“It’s all right,” he told her softly, “Why don’t you let me make it today?”

She sighed and then asked softly, “Oh, it’s just…” another sigh, “Have you… have you heard anything from Agent Milnor? About… about my mother?”

Gold’s stomach plummeted to the soles of his feet. If he were honest he would have expected this days ago, surprised it had been _this_ long before she asked, but he had deaded the moment, _never_ wanted to be the one to have to tell her.

He sighed, softly, an almost tender sigh, on the edge of it he breathed her name, “Belle…”

She must have read his face, the regret and sorrow in his eyes, for in the next moment she all but leaped from the couch, away from him, turning to face him with a look of disbelief on her face.

“No,” she exhaled the word, as a kind of accusation. “Not mum… not my mother…”

He slowly rose to his feet, taking a slow step toward her as he said, “I’m _so_ sorry, Belle.” He took a breath, continuing with his soft explanation, “Jefferson told me when you first arri--”

“You _knew!”_ she spat, and he took another step forward, reaching for her. She stood trembling in front of him in anger, mingled with grief. “All this time and you _knew!”_

As his hand touched her elbow she lashed out with her right hand. Her palm connected with his cheek, hard enough to rock him backwards, a loud crack filling the almost silent room. His hands clenched at his side as his _own_ anger began to rise, though not at Belle. _Never_ at Belle, but at the men that did this; the cruel and manipulative men and the monsters that controlled them; men like _him_.

“Just _when_ were you going to tell me?” she continued, her eyes filling with tears, and her body shaking even harder. “And what _else_ do you know that you haven’t told me!”

“Yes, I knew!” he finally exploded, his self recriminatory anger more than he could contain any longer. “I _knew_ and kept it from you because you _deserve_ a moment’s peace. I _knew_ and I said _nothing,_ because as much as I knew, _so_ did _you!_ ”

There was a split second of shocked silence before she responded.

“No!” she shook her head and moved to back away, but he caught her arms before she could. His grasp was gentle, nonetheless; drew her up against him, and her hands few up to rest against him, between them.

“And I think there’s a lot _more_ that you know…”

“No.”

“...and say nothing about…”

“Don’t!” she tried to twist away from him, but he held her firm.

“Why not?” he asked, his voice a harsh growl. “Don’t want me to know?”

“You… you don’t understand.”

“...How can I…?”

“Rein!”

“...and it has to stop. Night after night...”

“Let _go_ of me!”

“...the weeping… the nightmares…”

“Don’t!”

“...and still… nothing!”

“Don’t, please!”

“Don’t you _want_ justice?”

“Why didn’t you _just_ come in?”

“Do you want these men to just get _away_ with everything they’ve done?”

“Why?” She seemed to be ignoring his questions; focussing only on her own.

“Because I _can’t!_ ” he finally answered, and shook her, without any real force. He was in pain for _her_ pain, afraid for _her_ fear. “I can’t, and I _won’t_ be the one to hurt you in this. I won’t--”

“Let me _GO!”_

“Don’t you _want_ to see them punished for what they did to you; your mother? The way they tried to blackmail your father into--”

“IT’S HIS FAULT!” 

The way she screamed the words at him and pounded on his chest silenced him, seemed even to silence the house around them, and as though a switch was flipped, his anger retreated into a part of him where it could seethe and bubble, allowing him to reach, to reconnect with other emotions, to find again the protective heart of him and wrap it around her again, and not a moment too soon.

She broke the silence with a heartbroken whisper. “It’s his fault. It’s always been his fault, and now… my mother… mum… and I… I…”

Her legs buckled. She bore them both down, because he refused to let her fall. It was awkward, and hurt like hell, but he didn’t care. He just pulled her closer, wrapping her in his arms, rocking her gently as she sobbed the same words over and over again, making no sense beyond that this had all been her father’s doing.

A political lie, turned very, _very_ ugly. 

He had no notion of how long they sat there; how long she sheltered in his arms, and nor did he care. Some time after her gut-twisting sobs became weeping, she turned and clung to him, burying her head into the shelter of the crook of his neck, and he wound his fingers into her hair, whispering nothing in particular other than soothing sounds, the occasional soft whisper of her name.

When, at last, she raised her head, her breathing regularly hitched by catches that became silent sobbing breaths, the room was dark, save for the soft red glow from the fire that had long since faded into a sympathetic hushed and smoldering glow.

“Rein,” she said hoarsely, barely louder than a whisper of her own. “Your leg.”

“Sshh,” he murmured, “Don’t worry about me. I’m fine.”

As they pulled back from one another, but not very far, and if he were honest, neither did he want it to be, he slipped his fingers from the tangle of her hair and brushed a strand of it behind her ear, taking in her face, blotched from the torrent of emotion.

Then, he said, “It’s late. I don’t suppose you want to eat, hmm?”

she shook her head in confirmation of his guess.

“Then at least rest,” he said. “I’ll help you upstairs.”

He didn’t suppose she actually needed the help, rather suspected that she wouldn’t want to go by herself. He sensed the calm was fragile at best, and truly, he wanted her to rest. Her revelation cast a whole new light on all that had occurred, and perhaps _now_ , she would be more willing to speak of what she had seen; what she knew.

They climbed to their feet, and he fought down the moan of pain in his leg as he stretched from the awkward position in which they’d half fallen, half sat, using the movement of reaching for his cane, to hide it from her. She didn’t need guilt on top of everything else.

* * *

She reached for him again as soon as they were both on their feet. She needed that contact. He grounded her; gave her solid ground on which to stand, and she felt cold without his arms around her.

He didn’t seem to object, in fact drew her closer in to his side, and she set her pace from his, noticing his limp was a little more pronounced, presumably from the stiffness of sitting for so long as they had been.

They climbed the stairs in silence. It was thick, heavy… loaded with the knowledge that what had begun in a torrent of conflict and emotion could continue; had to continue if she were to be honest with him, and she _wanted_ him to know. She had carried her secret for far too long already, at first because she hadn’t understood, and then through loyalty and denial, but now… oh, how she wished she’d spoken; had done more. Could she have kept her mother safe?

“Hey,” his soft voice as he drew her to a halt by her door, and the light touch she found herself leaning into. She looked up at him, “Planning on walking up to the attic?”

She smiled softly, appreciating his attempt to lighten the mood, blushing lightly at his teasing.

“I was just…” She trailed off, shrugging.

“You should rest,” he filled in the falling silence, and she held her breath as his gaze shifted lower, to her mouth, and back to fix on hers again.

“Stay,” she whispered, 

“Belle…” He sighed softly, a slight frown creased his face.

“Please,” she said, “I just… I don’t want to be alone right now.”

“You aren’t alone,” he told her, his voice warm but with eyes reflected the exact thought that was in her heart. Her mother was gone; her father had long since rejected her and she had no siblings. “And I’ll be right across the hall.”

He ran his fingers through her hair as he brushed it back behind her ear, and she held her breath as he moved close; leaned down to her. His forehead came to rest against hers.

“I promise,” he whispered.

“Rein…” she breathed, closing her eyes in a long, slow blink before opening them again, her expression all but pleading with him to heed her, to recognize her need for him to stay, to hold her… help her rest.

She felt a tremor go through him, felt his hand slip from her elbow to the small of her back, and a million thoughts filled her head as her body responded to his nearness in the wake of her emotional needs. She took a shuddering breath and she felt his breath shift across her cheek.

“I’ll make us cocoa,” he told her softly. “Give you a chance to change.”

“Thank you,” she murmured, the tension in her body releasing with the relief of knowing that he would be there with her. He nodded briefly, and let go, leaning past her a little to open the door for her, and she turned and walked into the bedroom, listening as his steps moved away, wondering if he, too, would change, or return to her fully dressed.

With a sigh, she realized she was using the thoughts to distract herself from other, far less pleasant thoughts. Memories of her childhood self and what she’d seen, heard and refused to believe until the consequences of her silence returned to bite, and bite hard.

She picked up the shirt - his shirt - that she still used to sleep in, and the soft silk boyshorts that Ruby has purchased for her, which she had taken to wearing to sleep in, and made her way along the hall to the bathroom, preparing for rest except for brushing her teeth, which would be pointless anyway, since Rein was bringing hot chocolate up to bed.

She gave a wry, humorless snort of laughter as her rebellious brain told her this would be as though they were an old, married couple, without ever being a couple in the first place, and shaking her head, returned to the bedroom, settling herself into bed with a blush to know that he would see she still wore his shirt.

A soft knock interrupted her thoughts, and with her permission a moment later, the door opened to admit Rein. He _had_ changed, and was wearing silk pajamas in a purple so dark it was almost black, over which, unfastened, a mid-length robe swung about him as he moved.

He carried a tray balanced on his left hand, on which was set two steaming mugs of cocoa, and a plate that held what looked like thick slices of some kind of cake or cookie. In spite of not being in the slightest bit hungry, her stomach gave a soft reminder of the fact that they had both skipped dinner.

He smiled as he first set the tray on the nightstand closest to the door and turned to hand her one of the mugs.

“I’m glad I thought to bring up the shortbread. It isn’t much, but it’s sweet, and mostly wholesome.”

“You made it?” she asked softly.

He nodded. “It’s a… um… family recipe,” he said, and seemed to hesitate over the word somehow.

“May I?” she asked.

He held out the plate in her direction. “Please,” he said. “It is why I brought it up with me, after all.”

He chuckled, then stood, hovering as if awaiting her verdict as she took a bite.

Crumbly, buttery goodness burst over her tongue, followed by the subtle bite of ginger in its wake. She made a soft sound of appreciation, and looked over at him with a sincere smile to reflect his own.

“It’s delicious,” she told him softly, “Thank you.” Then blushing softly, she said quietly, “Join me…?”

He set his cane to rest against the foot of the bed, and then sat on the edge, shuffling backwards until his back rested against the pillows that were propped against the headboard.

“My… aunties, it’s their recipe. Been making it since I was a boy.” He picked up a piece of his own, took a bite and she watched as he closed his eyes, savoring the taste. “It’s a favorite of mine, I must confess.”

“I can understand why,” she said, her voice cracking a little as she spoke, the look on his face as he ate affecting her in more ways than she could process through the confusion in her mind; could only _feel._

“Rein,” she said softly, but he interrupted her before she could get any further through the labyrinth of avenues to talk about what she wanted - needed - to tell him.

“Belle,” he said, “I… really am sorry for your loss. I should have told you sooner. You do know that I was only trying to save you too much hurt all at once?”

She felt tears prick at her eyes again as his words brought back the thought that she would never see her mother again, never share the news of her college successes, a new job, new life coming to the family, or be able to ask for advice, or comfort or…

“I know,” she said, on the edge of tears, and reached for his hand as he turned a little towards her. He closed his fingers around hers and she gripped him tightly, as she spoke the fear that was in her heart. “It’s all right. It’s my fault. I should have said something… a long time… a-go.”

Her voice hitched mid-word, and she felt him draw her closer, telling her softly, “It is _not_ your fault. You can’t think that way. These people--”

She curled up, into his side, her head against his shoulder and his arm tightened around her, behind her back, fingers spread, their tips resting against her hip, but she could not let his nearness, the way he held her, stop her from speaking, rather she tried to draw strength from it.

“These people murdered my mother. These people took me, not as leverage, but as _payment_ , you understand?” she whispered, the beginning of a confession that was tearing her heart into shreds; filling her soul with pain. “When… when I was eight, I… I used to creep downstairs to take a new book when I needed one.”

“Can’t _imagine_ that,” he turned his head to look down into her face, and she blushed at the knowledge that she’d been caught more than once since she arrived, perusing the books in his study. He’d always been entirely good natured about it thought, as he was now, teasing her softly, helping to make the telling of her tale easier… less terrifying… and she realized only then that she _was_ terrified, of that memory and all it meant, and that she was trembling with it as she began to speak again…

_“There’d be a price of course,” The woman’s voice was calm, aloof and her accent made it seem more so. “Something like this can’t be arranged without there being… a sacrifice.”_

_Belle crept closer to the lounge door. She knew she shouldn’t listen at keyholes, as her Nana had always put it, because you might hear something you don’t like, but she wanted to see. She wanted to hear. She knew the word ‘sacrifice’ and she knew it wasn’t always a good word… why was this woman telling her papa he’d have to make one?_

_“I don’t know…” her father said and he sounded odd, confused somehow, or… reluctant._

_“Just think of it, Mister French,” That woman’s voice again, and Belle finally reached the doorway to look through the crack left by the door being left slightly ajar. She was a tall woman, clearly elegant. Her clothes were black - a pant suit from what Belle could see. Her dark hair swung around her shoulders as she moved, and her smile was just too wide for her long, thin face. She made Belle shiver. “Everything you want for the future, we can make it happen, just like you asked, and all I’d need would be a_ small _assurance.”_

_“But, my wife.”_

_“What about her?” Another woman’s voice, her accent similar, but harsher than the first, less refined. Belle tried to tip her head, to peer around the wood to see if she could see, but she couldn’t catch a glimpse of the other woman. “She knows the way politics works, surely. She’ll do as you tell her.”_

_“Seems like you’ve never met my wife,” her father replied, a somewhat amused tone in his voice._

_“Mister French…” the first woman again, and Belle watched as she first shot a look to some hidden part of the room, presumably where the second woman was standing, or sitting, Belle thought, remembering her father’s writing desk was in that corner. “I must be candid with you now. I came to visit with you because my people were certain of your interest in our proposals. I do not often visit with prospective business clients for… obvious reasons. Now, if you tell me you’ve changed your mind, well, I completely understand.”_

_Belle watched the woman slip her arm through her father’s and walk with him to his liquor cabinet. They were followed, though not closely by two men in dark suits. They frightened Belle, by their appearances, and she pulled back, turning to lean on the wall of the hallway, beside the door, breathing hard with her hands over her mouth so that no one would hear._

_“But if that_ is _the case, then I’m afraid that leaves you with only one of two options: return to Australia, and never again darken these shores,” the woman’s voice became cold, hard, and Belle tightened every muscle in her body against the chattering of her teeth and the sudden need to visit the bathroom. “Or you stay, and face the quite. Considerable. Consequences.”_

_“All right, all right,” she heard her father say fearfully. “Take her. Take them both!”_

* * *

“I’m sure there was more, Papa’s visitors didn’t leave for quite some time, but…” Tears were streaming, once again, down Belle’s cheeks as she told the story of her father’s betrayal. Gold reached over and tenderly passed his thumb along the lines of her tears to wipe them away, even as more fell. “But I was too afraid to listen any more.”

Belle’s voice wobbled, and he let himself slip further down on the top of the covers, turned to face her completely and wrapped her in both of his arms, holding her close, and closing his eyes, pressed soft, achingly tender kisses to her brow, and to each of her tear soaked eyelids.

“Enough,” he murmured, “You’ve carried this for far too long.”

He held her, neither moving for the longest time, but inside he was seething. Anger, unmatched in over ten, long years coarsed through him, and it was only through the sheer practiced effort of his will that he kept it in check.

He didn’t even think of moving until until Belle’s trembling subsided, and then he drew her away enough to look at her face, and once again carefully wipe away her tears.

“If you’ve finished with the cocoa, you should get some rest,” he said softly. “I’ll take the cups down.”

“Please don’t leave,” she said plaintively, as if she _knew_ what was in his mind.

“I have to, Belle,” he told her softly. He didn’t trust himself. Knowing what he now knew, coupled with the way he realized he’d come to care for her, as more than just a person he’d been asked to protect, he didn’t trust himself not to act upon those feelings, and inappropriately so. “I’m sorry, but I--”

“Please,” she whispered, “Just hold me… Just until I _sleep_. I’m so tired, but I’m scared.”

He sighed deeply. Gods, did she think he didn’t _want_ to? Could he? Could he dare to try and simply give her what she needed?

“All right,” he said after many long moments, and against everything he felt was gentlemanly; was right… only, he could not leave her to lie awake in fear. “Just let me bring the cups downstairs, and then I’ll come back. You get yourself settled.”

He slipped from her arms then, putting the now empty plate, and the cups back onto the tray, and walking carefully, slowly down the stairs, using each measured tread to control his still burning anger… anger and hate… at least for long enough to make a call - and he didn’t care what time it was - under the pretext of washing the cups.

He quickly rinsed the cups, and set them into the sink, along with the plate, and then headed for the stairs to the basement, enraged, but not stupid enough to make a the call he was planning to make without first checking his equipment was functioning as it should.

Milnor’s cell phone rang and rang, and twice went to voicemail before the man answered, sounding as if he’d been woken from the dead, and Gold had half a mind to send him back there.

“Milnor, you manipulative rat bastard,” he snarled, “How long have you known?”

 _“Gold, Fuck!”_ Milnor spluttered. _“Have you any idea of the goddamn time?!”_

“How long have you known?” How long were you under?”

 _“What?”_ Evidently Milnor was still waking up, and Gold was running out of time. He could hear the water running through the pipes, as Belle made her final preparations for bed.

“Just answer the questions!” he growled again, this time rewarded with some semblance of coherence.

 _“I suspected,”_ Milnor confessed. _“I was never sure. You gotta admit, it fit the insane bitch’s M.O.”_

“That’s your first mistake, Jefferson,” Gold snapped, using the man’s given name for the first time in a great many years. “To think she’s insane. She’s not. Cold, calculating, psychotic more times than I care to remember, but insane, she _never_ ever was.”

 _“Well, shit, Reinauld,”_ Milnor’s voice was as dry as the dirtiest of Martinis. _“I didn’t know you fucking cared.”_

“I don’t,” Gold spat. “Just tell me you’re out.” Silence, until Gold rumbled dangerously, “Jefferson!”

 _“I can’t, all right?”_ Milnor said, _“Man at the top made it out, and since I was the only one whose cover was still intact… Look, Gold, we’re good, right? I promise, anyone even so much as hints at sniffing your name, I’m an amnesiac. They’ll get nothing from me.”_

“Then you _really_ don’t know who you’re dealing with,” Gold warned, with absolute seriousness. “And if anyone recognizes you, you’re screwed.”

 _“What_ else _do you know?”_ Milnor asked, his verbal wince at Gold’s words clearly audible in the question he asked.

“You don’t have _time_ for me to tell you what else I know,” Gold answered, the full out sarcasm made his voice sound ugly, and more hostile. “You should have told _me_ what you suspected in the first place.”

 _“Would you have helped me if I had?”_ Milnor snapped defensively, _“Helped the girl?”_

Gold ended the call without answer, Milnor’s words cut deep, and served only to further inflame his already enraged temper. Incoherent with it he spun in place, tossing up his cane to catch the base of it and swing blindly at the nearest of the stacks of cardboard boxes, lashing out over and over and over until the box fell from its place, to spill its contents over the floor of the basement. Ceramic ware, hastily wrapped in fading newsprint, which Gold obliterated with the angry swinging of his cane.

Come morning, when the rage had passed, it would be a mess to clean up, but in that moment it represented everything he hated about his past, everything he hated in himself, everything except…

A thought caught him off guard, and he stumbled backward, just as the sound of the water, refilling the hot water tanks shut off, as if some guardian angel from the Undine’s world were watching over him. The thought left him breathless, stealing what remained of his rage, and tamping down the remaining anger like a well banked fire in the grate.

“Bae,” he whispered. “I’m sorry, Bae.”

* * *

Belle half expected Gold would have returned by the time she finally left the bathroom and took herself back to bed. She bit her lip softly when she found the bedroom empty, her heart misfiring, and a buzzing, escalating return of fear grasping at her at the thought that Rein had changed his mind.

She slipped beneath the covers, her hands tiny fists at her sides, until she heard the soft knock at the door, before it opened, and then closed. She turned again to face the door, and smiled at Rein, as he leaned his cane, as before, on the foot of the bed, and this time slipped off his robe to let it lie beside his cane, over the end of the bed.

Then he lifted back the covers and slipped into bed beside her, moving as though to settle himself comfortably. She reached for him, and he drew her close enough to allow her to pillow her head on his shoulder, the warmth of his splayed hand seeping through the silk of the shirt she wore, and her underwear beneath to burn against the skin of her hip… reminding her oh, so clearly how much she craved his touch, and more… needed him.

“I thought you’d changed your mind,” she admitted softly, glancing up at him as the sound of a click and the sudden gloom showed that he had not.

“I should have.” His voice came from out of the darkness, though the shape of his face was becoming more clear as her eyes adjusted to the sudden lack of light.

“I’m glad you didn’t,” she said, her voice catching again, and she found herself glancing around the room, the unfamiliar shapes becoming dangers that suddenly loomed at her. He must have heard the truth of her insecurity in her voice, because she felt his slow deliberate touch move over her.

He started at her head, drawing it back to his nestle on his shoulder. He ran his fingers through her hair and then onto her shoulder, descending in a lowering arc down her side to her hip, and onto the small of her back. At his touch, a deep heat settled low in her belly, the kernel of her own desires growing, wakening to a sweet, sharp ache.

“Go to sleep,” he whispered, “You’re safe. I promise.”

She turned a little more his way, her uppermost leg naturally bending to lay her thigh atop his, and his arms tightened around her, holding her in place against him.

“Thank you,” she managed, a little breathlessly, fighting the feelings that were all but suffocating her, “Goodnight, Rein.”

“Rest, Belle,” he murmured in return. “Goodnight.”

She lay for a while, breathing deeply, the scent of him enfolding her, his warmth surrounding her, her body becoming heavy and languid, as though she were melting into him, and she fancied she made out softly spoken, strangely sounding words that reached out into the darkness.

_“Chan eil, màthair, cha bhith thu aice. Tha mi a ’toirmeasg e!”_


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story was written for @killingkueen for the 2019 Rumbelle Secret Santa. Enjoy.

Gold woke and for a moment, barely awake, forgot himself and drew the warm body still wrapped up in his arms closer still, entirely heedless of the state of his own awakened body. As awareness returned, rebelling against his own sense of propriety, he continued to hold Belle tightly, breathing her in.

Sooner rather than later, his conscience caught up to him, and he slowly began to disengage himself from around her, moving carefully, gently so as not to wake her… not yet, anyway, but as everything he’d learned the day before resurfaced into his mind, it began to race with the necessity for new plans, new possibilities, and a greater danger.

He gathered up his robe, and cane, and quietly slipped through the door, heading for his own bathroom, to set those things in balance in his thoughts as he performed his morning toilette, and forty-five minutes later, he was washed, saved and immaculately dressed, and heading downstairs to relay his urgent instructions to MacCalmain, handing him all he would need to carry out those tasks.

Then he returned to the kitchen, and prepared breakfast, and a pot of tea, hearing Belle stirring upstairs, and hoping she did not feel badly for their actions of the night before. He knew that she had needed comfort, but still, if he were honest, he should not have allowed himself to be so easily swayed as to stay with her through the night.

He looked up as she entered the kitchen, dressed in a deep blue dress, with a lace overlay that continued up beyond the bodice to clasp around her neck. Over the bodice of her dress she wore a tiny, three quarter sleeve cardigan in a complementary, lighter blue. He smiled, his breath catching at her beauty, and in response she flushed, only adding to her beauty.

“Tea?” he asked softly.

“Thank you,” she said, hovering in the doorway for a while longer than had become usual. “I… about last night,” she began awkwardly, “I know it… wasn’t exactly what you were comfortable with and--”

He shook his head, offering her another smile. “No, Belle, really. It’s all right,” he said, “I understand.”

She nodded then, evidently recognizing his effort to put her at ease, and came around the table toward him. She took a gentle hold of his arm for balance, and stood on the tips of her toes to kiss his cheek.

“Thank you,” she murmured softly.

He nodded and indicated the table, “Breakfast is ready, if you’re hungry.”

“Famished,” she admitted, with a deeper blush as she took her accustomed seat at the table.

“Good,” he said, and set a good, hearty breakfast in front of her. “If you don’t mind, I’d like you to come with me today; to the shop.”

She looked up at him suddenly. “Into town?”

“Yes,” he said, and sitting down opposite her, explained, “After yesterday, I’d rather not leave you by yourself, and I thought about it this morning, and worried that you might be a little… bored, staying here by yourself all day?”

“I… wouldn’t say bored,” she answered. “It’s been peaceful, but… yes, I’d love to come and see where you work.”

He smiled, and said, “Excellent. There’s one thing though.” Part way through the pancake she was eating, she looked up, and he saw a momentary flash of doubt on her face. “I’ll have to ask you, to… head into the back room if anyone should come in.”

She frowned, and he waited, watching as thoughts came and went across her face before she finally asked, “You worry that someone might be here that would… recognize me. Tell someone where I am?”

“I wouldn’t say that it’s _very_ likely,” he said, “but the possibility is there, and I’d rather safeguard your location for as long as we can, so… Will you do as I ask?”

“Yes,” she said and nodded fervently, “Of course, but otherwise, I can help you, right?”

He chuckled softly, and teased, “But you’re not at _all_ bored, of course,” and was rewarded with another, beautiful, blush.

* * *

After breakfast, Gold left Belle to go and gather some things from the basement that he said he wanted to bring to the shop. Belle decided that she would spend the time in packing a lunch for the two of them to share - nothing complicated - simple but wholesome sandwiches, and some apples they could slice and eat to balance out the grain and meat, and butter in the bread.

When she was done, and Gold had not returned from the basement, and growing worried, Belle carefully picked her way down the wooden steps, into the dimly lit interior, calling out softly as she went.

She reached the last of the steps and then she saw Gold. He was on his hands and knees, carefully picking up packages wrapped in newsprint, and when he moved them, it sounded as though they were each one filled with broken glass, or pottery. 

“Don’t come further down, Belle,” he said, his voice somewhat muffled.

“What happened here?” she asked, horrified as she looked at the fallen boxes, and the clearly full garbage bags to one side of the box Gold was repacking.

“Well, I did say the boxes were precariously stacked,” he said, with a shrug, and levered himself back to his feet with the aid of his cane. "I guess an animal must have got in, and knocked them down.”

He sighed as he turned to her and offered a wry smile, and she gave him a sympathetic one in return.

“Is anything salvageable?” she asked.

“I think I’ve picked up anything I think that might be,” he said, “We’ll take them to the shop, and I’ll work on it all.” He gave her a small grin as he said, “If there’s one thing I’m good at, it’s picking up the pieces.”

She heard the hurt in the words that were obviously meant to be a joke, and raised an eyebrow for long enough for him to notice, but he shook his head, and told her, “Doesn’t matter. Go on up, I’ll be up in a minute.”

She nodded and turned carefully on the stairs before making her way up. On the way, she began to think of the few things that Gold had let slip about his past since she’d been with him. They were few and far between, but she had a strange, and slightly uncomfortable feeling that there was far more to him than she knew. She felt safe with him, she _only_ felt safe with him, but that in itself made her wonder. What was the difference between him, and Agent Milnor? Why did she think that _he_ could keep her safe, where Milnor could not?

* * *

Gold had spent the morning along with Belle, sorting through broken pieces of the dinner service that was in one of the boxes on which he had expressed his anger in the middle of the night. Belle had sorted, telling him that she had been a wizard at making jigsaw puzzles when she was younger, and he had glued, and teased her mercilessly as he attempted to get her to confess whether she was a ‘unicorn’ or landscapes’ kind of girl. By the time lunchtime came around, they had collectively put together two side plates, a saucer, and half of a milk jug.

Then, Belle surprised him, by producing a simple lunch for them. He made tea, and they sat, their work cleared to one side of the workbench which Gold covered with a tablecloth that he had in among a pile of linens in the corner of the room, sharing their food; the awkwardness caused by the events of the night before completely chased away by their morning’s work.

The scene was so natural, so perfectly domestic that it pulled and twisted at Gold’s heart, and left him breathless as she sat in light that came in through the windows, warming herself and nibbling on her sandwich.

“So, do we keep going with the repairs when we’re done,” she asked, looking up and catching him looking her way. He watched as her eyes widened and the blush crept up into her cheeks. 

“You’re staring,” she accused softly.

He shook his head, denying that he was doing exactly as he was doing, but that was not the only reason. After she told him of her memory, a very uncomfortable question had lodged in his head, and even with the knowledge he had spent so many years trying to forget, he could think of no real reason why she had been targeted. Beauty, certainly could play a part; innocence, a young, pliable mind that could be molded, but then… why had they waited until she reached her twenties? Money? He let out a sigh. He didn’t think that was likely, especially since what Belle had described had seemed as though her father had been negotiating some kind of financing deal, or endorsement. So why Belle?

“May I ask you something?” he said, and held up his hand to forestall her answering him too soon. “Something that you might not want to answer.”

She put down what remained of her sandwich, and he saw that she swallowed a little too hard. He supposed it hadn’t been difficult to put the pieces together, not for the jigsaw queen.

“Tell me,” she swallowed again, “what you want to know.”

“After the night when you overheard your father with...those people,” his mind was screaming at him not to ask the question when he truly didn’t want to know the answer. Once again he ignored himself and pushed on. “What changed? Did your family start to--”

The bell over the front door of the shop sounded it’s merry little tinkle, and immediately Gold signalled to Belle for quiet before he picked up his cane, stood and made his way toward the curtain that separated the back room from the shop’s retail space. He signaled to Belle to move aside from the doorway, and when he was sure Belle would not be visible as he stepped through, he moved into the shop.

Every one of the hairs on the back of his neck rose as he set eyes upon his visitor. Conservatively dressed in blue sweater, gray skirt, the white collar of her shirt barely showing as her entire prim ensemble was covered by the deep blue cape she wore - like some parody of a superhero - Mother Superior stood imperiously awaiting his attendance.

“Well, well,” he said, and came to a halt deliberately placed between the woman and the curtain through which he had just stepped. “It must indeed be a cold day in hell. To what do I owe the pleasure? As I recall, your rent is paid through the end of the month.”

She gave him the kind of smile that made him want to cross the room and wipe the smug expression from her face. His hands tightened on the handle of his cane instead.

“My visit has nothing to do with the rent,” she said. “I was made aware of your recent meeting at the town line.”

Gold’s hands tightened even more around his cane, his knuckles whitening to match the heat of his anger as it surged through him, matched only by his utter hatred for this woman and all of her kind.

“Oh,” he all but sang in contempt, “I knew the sheriff’s department had and issue with budgeting, but I wasn’t aware that they’d recruited the convent for the enforcement of Storybrooke’s highways now.”

“No need to be so hostile, Mister Gold,” she said with a mildness that was infuriating. “I merely came to offer my help.”

“Your help?” he all but snarled, “Let me assure you, Dearie, if and when I ever need your help, I’ll ask for it.”

“It’s not for you, Gold,” she responded, her voice snide, as though she knew she was burrowing her way beneath his skin. “It’s for the young woman you currently have in your care. I understand there was some kind of injury or abuse, before--”

“Let’s be clear, _Mother Superior,”_ he sneered her title, well aware of the smear of scandal that followed her around while she pretended piety and service. He also realized that his trying to keep Belle’s presence a secret was obviously not going to work. Sinikka Sebille was nothing if not persistent, but that didn’t mean he had to make it easy for her, nor to put up with her self righteous lectures, like some kind of irritating gnat that pursued you endlessly, just when you thought you were rid of it. “Whom I host, or otherwise, is none of your business. Your presence here, or at my home, is neither required, nor welcome.”

“As you wish,” she began to turn for the door, her head she tilted as though she were listening for something other than the sounds that could be heard in the shop itself. “But I’m certain, Mister Gold, that you’ll change your mind.”

She turned to face him at the door, and he gave her a withering stare.

“Try not to let your imagination run away with you, Dearie,” he advised, and kept his eyes fixed on the shop door to be certain that she would not return when she finally left. She did not, but he had to give himself time to think, and to think through an idea that had arisen as a possibility, but one that would be entirely dependent on Belle’s comfort level.

He locked the door, and as though she had been watching or listening for him to do so, Belle’s voice sounded from behind him.

“Is she gone?” she asked. “Who was that woman, anyway? You called her Mother Superior, is she really a nun?"

“She’ll not trouble us again,” he said, and crossed the shop’s floor back to Belle, “At least not for a while, anyway.”

“But she _will_ come back.” Belle as much stated as asked. “Why? What does she want with you?”

“Belle,” he called her name softly, and coming to a halt in front of her, gently took her by the upper arms, not wanting to voice his suspicions, lest he bring them to pass. “Please, it will be all right.” He set his cane down to lean against the counter, and used the counter for support, to move beside Belle. “It seems obvious, though, that trying to keep your presence a secret from the townsfolk is not going to be at all effective.”

“Do you have another idea?” she asked with a sigh.

“Actually, I do,” he said, “but it rather depends on whether you’d be comfortable with it; whether we could make it work.”

“Well,” she told him, her words, her accent wrapping round him and left him fighting down a rising rush of warmth and need as she said, “I won’t know unless you tell me what your idea is now, will I?”

When he turned his head, she was looking at him expectantly. For almost the space of a minute he met her gaze, berating himself for being about to suggest the most foolish plan possible, one that had the potential to put them both at risk.

“Rein?” she prompted him when he did not speak for too long.

He took a deep breath and asked softly, “Would you care to go to dinner, Miss French?”

* * *

Gold had explained that rather than trying to keep her presence a secret from the citizens in Storybrooke, they would gradually expose them to her being a part of their community. He told her with him at her side, though tongues would, likely, wag - by his own confession, he had never been seen with a companion of any kind, let alone a beautiful young lady - the extent of that wagging would remain within the confines of Storybrooke itself. In spite of being a part of the state of Maine, the town was more than a little isolated. He said it was what had drawn him to Storybrooke in the first place.

Still, Belle had worried about it the whole afternoon, not just at the thought of being discovered - she had every faith in Rein to keep her safe, but at the tacit implication that he believed, and would likely act, as though there were in some way connected as a couple.

She blushed again, thinking about it as she sorted through the remaining pieces of broken porcelain, as Gold served a customer in the front of the store - trying not to listen in - distracting herself from the apparent argument between him and the mayor; thinking of all of the times she had been close to him. Remembering the times he had held her close and the feelings that had begun to burn more and more fiercely through her with each encounter; the one… terribly emotional night, when he stayed with her, held her close as she slept. For once, she slept peacefully.

“Infuriating woman!” His voice made her jump as he came back behind the curtain, but when she looked up at him, he smiled.

“Is there _anyone_ in this town you find agreeable?” she asked, her voice light, and on the edge of teasing, as much as she dared.

He chuckled, the rich warm sound renewing her blush.

“Few, as you’ve noticed,” he said, and then turned to pick up a cloth, one edge of which he handed to her, and gestured to the opposite end of the workbench. “It’s almost five. We can leave this for today.”

Together they covered the sorted, broken pieces, and as she straightened up, she raised an eyebrow at him. “Since when did _you_ keep a nine to five day?”

He grinned, and raised his eyebrows in as teasing a manner as she herself was teasing him.

“Oh, I think I can make an exception for one day, Miss French,” and at her small frown of consternation corrected, “Belle.”

She nodded to him, and when another serious thought entered her head at his reversion of address, she asked genuinely, “And what should I call you, while we’re out causing the latest Storybrooke scandal, Mister Gold?”

She guessed that there were as few in the town that even knew his given name as there were those he found agreeable, and wondered if he’d wish to keep it that way.

“You, my dear,” he said, offering his hand, which after a moment’s hesitation, she took, feeling the now familiar, yet unfamiliar, shock of sensation run through her as their hands met, “may call me whatever you think fitting.”

He leaned a little closer then, as he picked up his cane and began to lead her from the back room, and through the store toward the door at the front of the shop. His breath was hot against her cheek, and stirred the air beside her ear and the side of her neck, raising goose-bumps all along her body.

“Whatever feels right,” he murmured softly.

She tried to hide her shiver, but didn’t think she managed very well. She waited outside of the door and felt suddenly chilled, despite her sweater, once the connection with him was disrupted, however briefly, while he locked up the door of the shop. She looked up and down the street, spotting only a few people walking along the road at this hour: a petite young woman with short cropped, dark hair, dressed in white, but with a gray cardigan that flew behind her, somewhat, like a cape as she hurried along toward the corner, and a stockily built man, in some kind of dark coverall beneath a padded vest-type jacket, the scowl on his face only half hidden by his full beard.

Gold turned, and saw her watching their progress, and stepping to her side, offering her his hand again, which she gladly took, he said, “Miss Mary-Margaret Blanchard. She teaches school, and Mister Leroy Pitts. Works as a Janitor at the hospital.”

“And you know everyone?” It wasn’t truly a question, but she saw him nod anyway as they began walking along the street. “And they all dislike you?”

He raised an eyebrow and said, “I’d say it was somewhat stronger than that. Makes a poor impression on a young lady, no?”

She heard the light, slightly joking tone of his voice, but she also felt the tension in him through the connection of her hand, gently clasped in his. She took a moment to shift her grasp, linking their fingers, to a more intimate style, and drew a sharp breath as she felt the light pass of his thumb over her knuckles.

“Not at all,” she assured him then. “It simply tells me that they don’t _know_ you at all.”

He let out a slight huff of laughter, before he said, “You’re far too generous, my dear.”

They arrived by the gateway to a small courtyard, which led to the entrance of a modest sized diner. The cheerful lights in the windows and above the door shining in neon pink and blue, and green in the sign above, proclaimed the name, ‘Granny’s Diner.’

“This is where Ruby works,” she remembered.

“Indeed. The business is owned and operated by her grandmother, Missus Lucas.” He reached to open the door, and gestured for Belle to go ahead of him. “She also runs the local Bed and Breakfast,” and teasing added, “should you ever tire of my company.”

Without even thinking, as though it were the most natural thing in the world, Belle turned at that, still holding his hand, but slapped her other, free hand, half playfully against the middle of his chest.

“Rein!” she protested, and felt him release her hand, only to slide his arm supportively around her waist to maintain her balance, splaying his fingers to casually draw her closer. She leaned a little, accepting his support, his embrace, and said, “I don’t think I could _ever_ tire of it.”

“Glad to hear it,” he said, his voice a low, husky murmur, and then looked up, and following his lead, she drew away a little only then to notice the hush that had fallen over the diner. She felt the blush creep over her face, and fought the urge to hide against Gold’s chest.

“You two planning on coming in any time soon?” An elderly woman’s voice called out as harshly as a gunshot.

“Missus Lucas,” Gold whispered in his ear, before he stepped a little sideways, away from their embrace, but took another gentle hold of her hand. Aloud, he said, “Apologies, Missus Lucas. It seems my friend suffered a moment of shyness.”

From somewhere deeper within the diner a quiet mumble of, “Seems your _friend_ has suffered a moment of _insanity._ ”

Belle had known from their discussions that few in Storybrooke liked Gold, but to hear it first hand, and directed at _her_ no less, she felt a trembling kind of sadness, mingled with anger. The sadness must have shown on her face, because Gold released her completely, and began to take several rapid steps in the direction from which the comment came. It took Belle a moment to realize what was happening, before she scrambled to try and catch up to him.

“Is there something you want to say to _me_!”

Gold loomed over the seated man, who shrank away, no longer brave in the face of the confrontation. Gold snarled the words as though he was ready to tear the offender limb from limb, and even she, when she reached out to grasp his arm gently and he turned her way. It took him a second to catch hold of his temper, before his face softened to that of the man she knew, the one toward whom she took a step.

“It’s all right, Rein,” she said quietly, pressing a hand to his chest again. “He knows nothing of what we have…” She swallowed at her own words. What they had was certainly a connection of _some_ kind; a strange kind of friendship that had developed, but even _she_ was uncertain - was there more behind it than that, as she wanted there to be.

“No, Belle,” his voice was gentle again, and his hand cupped her cheek softly, “it isn’t all right. I won’t have anyone speak to you like that.” and she saw the unspoken self deprecating addition to what had been spoken. _...not because of me._

He covered her hand with his, and then turned another baleful stare the man’s way. The man glanced briefly at Belle as she stood at Gold’s side, and then back to Gold.

“Yes, you reptile!” Gold rumbled, “I believe you owe the lady an apology.”

“Rein…” she tugged on his arm, just wanting the ugly scene to be over, and yet…

At the same time, her heart swelled. That he would defend her honor in such a way, that he was offended by people calling her names, questioning her sanity… it only made her want him all the more.

“Gold,” Missus Lucas’ voice sounded from nearby, “Did you come in here to eat, or to cause a brawl. Get yourself a table, or get out!” The offender at the table sat a little taller, and Belle frowned as he began to get the hint of a smug expression on his face, but that was crushed as Missus Lucas continued, “And you, Walter, Gold’s right. You owe the lady an apology!”

Gold slipped his arm around Belle, and she leaned in to his side, as Walter looked between Missus Lucas, and Gold, to Belle, and then back to Gold again.

“I’m sorry, Miss,” he said finally, but went on to add, “It’s just--”

“Just nothing!” Missus Lucas snapped at Walter, before turning to Gold and Belle with a serious, but kindly expression. “It’s nice to finally see a young lady on your arm, Gold.” Then she held out her hand in Belle’s direction, and said, “I’m Widow Lucas, but folk around here call me Granny.”

Belle took her hand, blushing afresh at her comment, and answered, “Belle. It’s good to meet you, Granny.”

Granny nodded once, and then gestured with her head toward a table in the diner, on which Ruby had just finished draping a table cloth, and setting out two places. Ruby caught Belle’s eye across the diner, her expression one of wry amusement, and a silent _I knew it!_

* * *

Introducing Belle to the Storybrooke community afforded them several peaceful weeks, and Gold found himself relishing the fact, and the time they spent living an almost domestic life. Some days, Belle would stay home, others she would come with him to the shop, at other times - since she and Ruby had become such friends - she would spend time hanging out with the other woman.

At all times, however, after his return to Storybrooke - and whenever she was not in Gold’s company - Gold would ensure that MacCalmain was close enough to guard her, should it be necessary.

Once again, their evenings were spent in sharing conversation, their well matched interests and intellect making for easy discourse, and frequent, innocent teasing, and not so innocent flirting. They took it in turns to make the cocoa at the end of the evening; a playful competition as to which of them could make the other verbalize the deliciousness of the beverage first.

And on rarer evenings, when the air was exceptionally cold, or they were unusually thoughtful, they would settle, beside the fire in the fireplace, and speak quietly on whatever came to mind. Life became almost normal, and while he was grateful for that, Gold did not - and would not - for a second, let his guard down. In fact, the longer there was peace, the more careful - and suspicious - he became.

“Ruby said she might come over this evening.” Belle’s voice greeted him as he returned from hanging up his overcoat. “If that’s all right?”

He looked over to the space before the fireplace, where Belle had pulled all the cushions from the chairs, and the couch, and made of them a little… nest of sorts, he supposed. It troubled him though, just a little, not for the sake of the cushions being on the floor, but because Belle had seemed especially thoughtful over the last couple of days… and now this.

“Of course,” he told her softly, and made his way closer to the fire, laying his suit jacket across the back of one of the displaced chairs as he did. As soon as he grew close enough she reached up to take hold of his hand.

“Rein… you’re freezing!” she told him, quite unnecessarily, as he was well aware of how cold he’d grown as he walked around outside, double checking that everything was in place. “Get _down_ here.”

She tugged on his arm until he lowered himself, as gracefully as possible to join her in her nest of cushions. Once he was down she picked up one of the throws she had nearby and tried to wrap it around his shoulders, It fell in a kind of lopsided drape across his back, and he chuckled.

“Belle, I’m not _that_ cold,” he said, then his laughter trailed off, and he reached out a tentative hand to gently brush her hair behind her ear, taking a breath as she leaned into his touch, before asking, “What is this all about, truly?”

She swallowed and shook her head, her hands falling to pick at the blanket’s edge as she asked almost nervously, “What’s going to happen?”

“What do you mean?” he said.

“Well, it’s been weeks, and we still haven’t heard from Agent Milnor, not about anything.” she said, and then looked up at him, “I mean, isn’t there supposed to be an investigation going on? Shouldn’t _someone_ have contacted us by now?”

He sighed. “I wouldn’t count on anyone from inside the bureau contacting you, beyond Milnor, I mean. People like the ones he’s investigating… they usually have more than a few… contacts on the inside, and Jefferson…” he trailed off, and tried to think of something other than what he’d been about to say, before finishing, “...he’s just one man, probably still trying to figure out who he can trust.”

Every word he’d just said to her was true, so why did he feel so guilty for not telling her everything that was going on; for not worrying her with the details.

“What aren’t you telling me?” she said, worrying at her lower lip with her teeth, and he reached out to try and stop her, passing his thumb over her lip, but she turned her head away. “Stop trying to distract me, Rein.”

He sighed again.

“He’s still undercover,” he said simply. “You may not have known that was what he was doing when he got you out, but… someone got away, and he had to stay with them so that they didn’t lose all trace of… whomever was behind all this.”

“How do you know all this?” she asked, frowning.

“I called him.” he confessed. “After you told me about your father, I… called him to give him the lead, but he told me he was still in, and--” He grimaced, cutting himself off, and out of the corner of his eye, he watched her studying him, felt her eyes almost touching his face, reading him.

“You have a… history, don’t you?” she said. “With Jefferson, I mean.”

“You know I do,” he said. “I told you.”

“No, but I mean… deeper than just that. Something… meaningful.”

“I told you that, too,” he obfuscated. “He saved my life.”

“Yes, and you saved his. You said it was mutual, so… what was it? You worked together, like… partners or something?”

“No, Belle,” he said and sighed again, “Look, why are you asking all this?”

“Because… I need to know, Rein, I need to know what’s going to happen to me. I don’t _have_ anyone any more. Mum’s dead, and… my father, well… Do I go back to the family home when all this is done? I mean, I can’t just… stay here indefinitely., I… you--”

“Yes you can,” he interrupted. “Until we’re sure you’re safe, that’s exactly what you can do… and whether that’s weeks, months - longer…? It doesn’t matter.”

“But I… I can’t impose.”

“You’re not.”

“I _am_. You… have a life here, and because of me--”

“What do you think?” he said a little more sharply than he intended. “You can just run off back to your old life, to daddy? Don’t you think he wouldn’t sell you again in a heartbeat?”

The thought of her moving away, of not being a part of his reality any more, not a part of his life, it knotted his stomach… she brought him warmth, more than just wrapping him in blankets when he didn’t need it. She showed him light. She _reminded_ him that he _was_ on the right path - doing the right things. 

“Don’t,” she said, her voice full of pain, and he _hated_ that he’d hurt her again, with this, but she had to know the truth.

“I _know_ men like that,” he said, cupping her cheek far more gently than his words, and faltering said, “I _was_ one.”

“No,” she whispered, catching hold of the edges of his waistcoat, as though the simple act of holding on to him would change what he had just told her; would change the ugly truth of his past. He shook his head.

“Yes.”

“That’s how you met Jefferson,” she said, her quick mind jumping back to put the pieces together. “You were working _against_ each other.”

“In a way,” he admitted, “but by the time I met Jefferson, I’d… already realize the… wrong of it. I wanted out.”

“And he helped you,” she stated. Real and remembered pain that he’d buried so long ago surfaced, threatening to suffocate him. He felt it rolling over him, through him, like a chill and a fever both at the same time, and then she pressed her hand to the side of his neck, and said almost tenderly, “Come back to me, Rein.”

He blinked as she centered him; took a shuddering breath and laid his forehead to hers, breathing her in, breathing in her breath, and murmured, “Yes, it was something like that.” He took another breath then, and whispered, “Thank you, Belle.”

He closed his eyes and nuzzled her cheek with his own, everything in him _screaming_ at him to back away, to stop. He couldn’t do this to her. Couldn’t make her a part of a past that seemed to be catching up with him, not and keep her safe. He didn’t listen to himself. He never did.

The hand that still cupped the softness of her face shifted, running his thumb across her cheek, tipping her head every so slightly as the fingers of his other hand moved to cup the other side. The warmth of her shallow breath feathered across his mouth and he parted his lips to draw her in. His mouth pressed briefly, softly to hers, barely a touch as she breathed in sharply. He closed his lips around the lower of hers, tugging, coaxing, the tip of his tongue drawing a line against the soft inner flesh as he barely drew away, only to press more firmly again. His lips parted hers, as need raced through him, and he slipped one arm around her waist to draw her closer, as his tongue teased the sweetness of her lips again.

Belle started like a guilty schoolgirl, breaking the kiss, as the knock sounded, loud and insistent against the front door, and Gold could feel the hammering of her pulse against his fingers that rested against her neck.

He breathed out in a rush, and swallowed hard, then took a moment to brush her mouth again with a far more chaste kiss than the last.

The knock came again, more frantic this time, and a faint voice accompanied it.

“Come on, Gold, open up! I’m freezing my ass off out here!”

“Ruby,” Belle breathed, letting her head fall to rest against his shoulder, and he ran his fingers through her hair.

“Are you all right?” he asked, completely ignoring the fuss from beyond the front door. He felt Belle nod against him. Then, with a playfully sarcastic tone he said, “Remind me to complement Miss Lucas on her _impeccable_ timing.”

Belle chuckled, sitting up and away from him, and he felt suddenly cold without her near.

“I’ll get the door,” he said, starting to extricate himself from the little nest of cushions. “And make us all something warm to drink.”

He offered a gentle smile as he headed for the door, the lingering sensation of her mouth against his following him as he left the room.

* * *

Belle took a deep breath, and let it out as slowly as she could, but it still came out as her trembling torrent of air. Her entire body was alive with need, singing with the strong, sweet yearning his kiss had awakened deep within her. She squeezed her thighs together to try and ease the ache that rested there, and with a trembling hand, brushed her lips with her fingertips as if to capture the moment, the sensations that still tingled there.

She took another breath, trying to calm herself, knowing that Ruby would see in an instant, if she did not, that there had been something going on, and it wasn’t that she didn’t _want_ Ruby to know, but more that she was confused… conflicted. How could she feel so strongly for this man, whom she barely knew, and yet who made her heart ache for the sorrow she felt lurking beneath the surface of his otherwise steely appearance.

“Oh, my God,” Ruby’s voice made her jump as the other woman disturbed her thoughts, “I’m so sorry.” Belle frowned in confusion, until Ruby asked softly, “Did I interrupt something?”

“What?” Belle blushed fiercely, belying the words that she was about to speak. “No! No, of course not. Why would you--”

“Well, I mean look at you, all flustered,” Ruby teased gently, coming over to settled herself down beside Belle on the cushions, and stretched out her hands toward the fire. “And this looks cozy.” She nudged Belle. “Come on. Spill, girlfriend.”

“We… sort of kissed, a little bit,” Belle confessed haltingly.

“About time.”

“Ruby!”

“Oh, come on, Belle. It’s been obvious to me for _ages_ that you got it bad.”

“Stop it!”

Evidently, Ruby took pity on her, because she reached out to squeeze her arm, and said softly, “I’m happy for you, that’s all,” and added after a moment in a slightly bemused tone, “and for him too, if I’m honest.”

“Do I detect my ears burning,” both women turned as Gold returned to the lounge, carrying a tray on which three large mugs of hot chocolate stood steaming, Ruby hopped up to take it from him, and carry it back to where Belle was making space in among the cushioned nest to pull an old ottoman to serve as a table of sorts. She knew that Gold would have brought cookies to go with the hot chocolate. He always did.

* * *

Gold had pulled one of the discarded chairs closer to give him something to lean against, completely relaxed and at ease sharing time and conversation with Belle and Ruby as they all enjoyed the warmth of the fire. It was a frigid night, and it only promised to get colder, and as time went on he thought to give Ruby the option to stay, or at the very least get MacCalmain to drive her home.

“What do you think, Gold?” Ruby’s voice startled him back to the present.

“Hmm?”

“Snow, or not?” Ruby asked. “I’m sure it’s cold enough.”

“Cold enough, perhaps,” agreed Gold, “but I rather think too dry. Actually though, Miss Lucas--”

“Would you call me Ruby already!” she snapped in exasperation, “It’s too late for that kind of Bul--”

“Manners cost nothing, Miss Lucas,” Gold said, with a grin.

Ruby threw up her hands in exasperation, and tried to recruit Belle to her side, “He’s impossible! How do you put up with him?”

Belle laughed, and Gold chuckled, enjoying the teasing banter, mostly for the fact that it made her happy. The whole of her lit up when she smiled, when she laughed, and she didn’t do it nearly enough, in his opinion.

“As I was saying,” he persisted, “Given the lateness of the hour, and the temperature out of doors, I wonder if you’d care to--”

This time he was interrupted by his phone, and he frowned, pulling it from his pocket to look on the display for the name or number of the caller. He froze. It wasn’t Jefferson’s number. It should have been. It should _only_ be. Suddenly breathing faster, his heart a painful tolling in his chest, he got to his feet faster than he probably should have, murmuring a soft apology as he did so.

“Excuse me, Ladies. I must take this call.”

Before either of them had answered, he was half way across the room, and as soon as he reached the hallway, and turned for the kitchen, he thumbed the key to answer the call.

“What?” he snapped without courtesy or preamble. If it _were_ Jefferson, using a different phone from necessity, he’d completely understand the need for expedition. It wasn’t.

“That’s _hardly a cordial greeting, is it?_ ”

His racing heart slowed to an icy crawl, and a bile, borne of hatred rose in his throat at the sound of the voice. Laced with sarcasm, layered over a pallet of bitterness, and in his mind, a memory flashed, unwanted and unwelcome.

_“Oh, please…” Her voice was mocking, the tone cruel, and she drew out the words. “Let’s finish this!”_

_She raised her weapon, clubbing Bae hard enough to drive him to his knees. The light left his eyes as he caught himself on his hand, and he turned his own, cold stare toward Gold._

“West,” he snarled.

“ _Oh, so you_ do _remember me then_ ,” she said, mockingly cheerful now. “ _How are things, Duneach - oh but wait, that’s not it any more is it?_ ”

“What do you _want?_ ” he snapped, “And why would you think I’d _ever_ want to hear from you? Unless you tell me you’re suffering some incurable illness, in which case I’ll _gladly_ put you out of my misery.”

 _“Aww, Gold, I didn’t know you cared_ ,” she sang, sarcastically. _“How is that working out for you, by the way? Small town, big man… So many friends, I’m sure._ ”

“You _stay_ the hell away from me.” he demanded harshly, and she laughed, no, she cackled.

“ _Make me!_ ” she spat.

“Gladly.” he showed his teeth to the phone, his voice a hiss into the microphone. “If I so much as catch a _hint_ of you coming anywhere close, I will _end_ you.”

“ _You don’t have it_ in _you,_ ” she jeered. “ _Not any more. You’ve gone soft… and slow. How_ is _your son, by the way? Where on the face of the Earth did you squirrel him away… Oh yes, I know he survived. I know he’s still alive..._ ”

“You _dare--!”_

“ _...no thanks to you._ ”

“Don’t you blame me for this!” he growled, spittle flying as his temper flew. He _knew_ it was what she wanted, but he could no more stop himself than he could have stopped the sun from rising in the morning.

“ _Temper, temper,_ ” she purred. “ _Whatever happened to the disciplined gentleman I used to know_ so _well?_ ”

“You know _nothing_ about me.” he countered, “You _never_ knew anything about me.”

“ _And what about this sweet young thing, I hear you’re dating?_ ” she taunted. “ _Does_ she _know you? I mean,_ really _? Know what you were - what you_ are _?_ ”

“I _swear_ to God, West, you come _anywhere near_ me, or my son, or anyone else I might care about, and whatever _rock_ you crawl under won’t keep me from taking you apart piece, by rotten piece and feeding you to the rest of the neighborhood strays!”

“ _Promises, promises,_ ” she chuckled. “ _Your lady mother sends her love, by the way._ ”

“No!” The word sounded inhuman coming from his lips. “You don’t get to taunt me with that banshee!”

“ _Oh, I’m not taunting you,_ ” West said, the smugness in her voice obvious, “ _I’m just the one that’s keeping you talking. Milah offered, but we both figured that you’re probably hang up on her in a heartbeat._ ”

All the blood drained towards Gold’s feet, and he cursed himself for being so _stupid_ , so gullible. He all but raced from the kitchen towards the basement door, uncaring that he scraped his hand against the wall, or almost fell as he misstepped with his cane. His only thought was to ascertain whether his security had been compromised - such as it was anyway - though he feared he already knew the answer.

“ _Well, I can hear you’re busy, Gold,_ ” West’s voice held the same, exaggeratedly smug tone, as though she could imagine what he was doing. “ _It’s been good speaking with you though. I’ll see you soon._ ”

She cut the call before he could hurl the curse that was poised on his lips, as he found, indeed, that she’d kept him talking for long enough for signal, which had been bouncing around all over the place to mask his true location was hovering, steady and exposed… in Storybrooke.

Utterly disgusted with himself; his carelessness and stupidity he swung at the wall with his fist, connecting hard, ignoring the pain as he punished himself for putting everyone - for placing Belle - right back in harm’s way. He swung again, savoring the pain, crying out with it, yet stifling that cry. A third time he pounded the wall, before finally leaning on the desk supporting the electronic devices which had been neutralized, essentially by his weakness, his hatred.

Breathing hard, he tried to order his mind. He didn’t have time for this self indulgence, not if he were going to keep Belle safe, and he _had_ to… _wanted_ to… _needed_ to. To make a plan he needed to know just how fucked up the whole thing was. His eyes ached from holding back tears of anger. His hand throbbed with the pain of his recent self harm, and now, he needed to _act_.

He hit his speed dial, listening, with increasing worry, to the sound of Jefferson’s phone ringing… ringing… ringing…

There was a click, a cough, and then a voice, barely recognizable as Jefferson rasped out two words.

“ _They’re... coming._ ”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story was written for @killingkueen on Tumblr as part of the 2019 Rumbelle Secret Santa.

When Gold had not returned in a reasonable amount of time, Belle began to feel uneasy, and picking up on it, or so it seemed, Ruby, also became restless.

“Maybe we should… you know, straighten up some,” Ruby said, and Belle nodded, climbing to her feet and beginning to pick up the cushions and set them back on the chairs and the couch. She kept Ruby close, not wanting to be too far from her friend, a now seemingly long forgotten tension seeping back into her limbs, and part of her was afraid… afraid that she knew what it was.

They’d barely finished straightening the lounge when Gold appeared as if from out of nowhere. The first thing Belle noticed was the grim expression on his face, and the second…

“You’re bleeding!” she reached for his bloodied hand, but he sidestepped her with far more agility than she expected, and grasped her arm, all but dragging her; hurrying her toward the stairs.

“Hey!” Ruby protested, but Gold ignored her. Belle wondered if he even heard.

At the foot of the stairs, Gold released her arm, and she realized he’d been holding her so tightly that he’d cut off her circulation by virtue of the fact that she felt the sudden rush of blood returning to the lower portion of her arm. She almost flinched when he reached toward her face. She had never seen this side of him before, and she was more than certain that she didn’t want to. He was terrifying. Still, he cupped her face gently, almost tenderly with a look of regret in his eyes as he leaned close and said, “Go upstairs, pack a bag. You’ll find one in the wardrobe beside the dresser.”

“Are we going somewhere?” she asked fearfully, and then flinched again at the tone in his voice as he answered.

“No. You are.” He shook his head at her frown, his expression closed to her. “MacCalmain will take you somewhere safe.”

“But…” she stammered as he gave her a push toward the stairs. Even as she mounted the first of the steps, she continued, “No, I want to stay, I want to stay here with you.” He shook his head. “I’m _safer_ with you,” she argued.

“Don’t fight me on this please, Belle,” he said. “We haven’t much time.”

He nodded to her then, and Belle felt tears rising in her eyes, unable to shake the feeling that he was saying a somewhat unsubtle goodbye. She turned from him then and fled up the stairs, aware that he was watching as she ascended only by heat of his gaze upon her as she did.

* * *

As soon as she was out of sight, Gold turned to Ruby. “MacCalmain will drive you home before he takes Belle to safety,” he said. “and Miss Lucas… please take care in the coming days. I should hate for you of all people to become caught in the crossfire.”

“What the fuck, Gold!” Ruby snapped. “You sound as if we’re about to be descended on by an army or something?”

He met her gaze, as serious as he had ever been and answered without a hint of his usual sarcasm. “Something like that.”

“Shouldn’t you… I mean like… at least give Emma a heads up?” Ruby said, her arms wrapped around herself until Gold reached down her coat and handed it to her, forcing her to unfold enough to take it from him.

“Already ahead of you, Miss Lucas,” he answered. “I will be going from here to find Sheriff Swan.”

“So this is bad…?” she asked, and he gave her a withering look.

“Go home, stay home,” he said earnestly, then glanced up the stairs before reaching out to place a hand lightly onto Miss Lucas’ shoulder. “And Ruby,” he said more softly, sadly, “Please, when this is all done, tell Belle--”

“No way in _hell_ ,” she pushed at him, “am I telling Belle _anything_. You’re coming back, Buster. You’re gonna find her, wherever it is your muscle is taking her, and tell her your damn self.”

Gold chuckled, and gave her a wry little bow, wishing _he_ could be as certain of her prediction for the future as was she. “As you wish, Miss Lucas.”

* * *

Belle shivered as she sat in the back of the vehicle, the enormous, silent man driving the car watching all around him as he drove out of Storybrooke, toward the thicker area of surrounding woodland. He had been insistent, but surprisingly gentle as he’d helped her into the car, even as she had tried to look back toward the house that had become her home; trying to see Gold.

But Gold was already gone.

Mister MacCalmain drove her for a while after dropping Ruby home, eventually turning off the road onto a poorly defined dirt track that wound in and out of the trees, the darkness gathering closer and closer, even with the headlights of the car on full beam, as the trees grew thicker and thicker, until eventually the closed, overhead canopy gave way to a cloud covered sky, and in the clearing ahead, the shape of a cabin resolved out of the darkness, and the fog rolled in through the trees.

Mister MacCalmain drew the car to a halt, and silently got out. He walked around to open the door for Belle, offering a hand to help her out.

“Where are we?” she asked, wrapping her arms around herself. In spite of her jacket, she was shivering from the cold. In answer he gestured at the cabin. So, she asked, “This belongs to Rein?” He nodded, and from a pocket produced a key, Which he used to unlock the door, and then returned to the car, to gesture politely for her to come inside.

Belle swallowed, and followed the gentle giant into the cabin. MacCalmain was just turning on sufficient light to drive away the darkness, but not so much that the ground around the cabin was illuminated with light. Leaving her to explore, he went out to the woodshed, to fetch in wood to set beside the fireplace, and began to build a fire.

Belle wandered slowly around the cabin, running her hand over the loveseat by the fire, and the throws hanging over the back, her fingertips over the surface of the table and the backs of the chairs beside the table. She drifted into the kitchen area, laid her hands on the counter, everywhere she touched, she felt Rein’s presence, but it was distant, like a ghost. The thought made her shiver again, even given the fire that MacCalmain had lit in the grate.

With a sigh, Belle made her way toward the bedroom, opening up the door, and reaching for the switch to turn on the light. She gasped, not quite a scream, when fingers closed around her wrist, and turned her head to see MacCalmain shake his head, moving past her to instead turn on the wall lights, close the drapes and turn on the bedside lamps. He turned to her then with an apologetic smile, and a little bow, before going to the hearth to light a fire there too.

So this was ‘somewhere safe,’ in the middle of nowhere, in a place that reminded her of Rein at every turn; reminded her that he wasn’t there _with_ her, and that the way he’d looked at her, when she turned back from the top of the stairs, seemed full of longing and regret. Seemed full of goodbye.

* * *

With every step he took, Gold tried to calculate how long it would be before _someone_ arrived and started making threats. That was the usual modus operandi. He tried to work out what kind of defense he’d need, what kind of firepower. Most of all he tried to talk himself out of going to the cabin to check that MacCalmain had secured everything enough, in case someone got past him.

His steps were measured as he made his way into the sheriff’s department, and toward the office, where he could already see that Miss Swan sat at her desk. Her red leather jacket hung on a coat hook, and to all intents and purposes, she looked peaceful. He was almost regretful that he was about to shatter that peace.

As he passed through he noticed that Leroy occupied his usual place, and glanced at the clock on the wall, thinking it was too early for him to already be locked up for being drunk and disorderly, but he supposed that it was well past eleven, and depending on what time he’d started, well, perhaps it _wasn’t_ already too early - which made the conversation he needed to have with the sheriff all the more important.

“Mister Gold?” Sheriff Swan looked up, frowning in what looked like confusion as to why he should be walking into the station. He supposed her surprise had merit. “Is something wrong?”

He wanted to laugh. Oh, how right she was in her assessment of the reason for his coming. He picked a starting point and without preamble said, “I received a call about an hour ago, and from it I understand that one or more enforcers from a criminal organization are headed to Storybrooke. They are coming for me, and I must inform you that I shall use every resource available to me to ensure that they fail in their endeavor.”

She sat up, ramrod straight in her chair, her eyes wide, with an uncertain expression on her face, as though she was trying to work out whether or not he was serious. Evidently she was still undecided.

“Christ, Gold,” she said, “You didn’t even take me to dinner. Where’s the biting sarcasm, the veiled threats?”

“We don’t have time for that kind of foreplay, Sheriff Swan,” he answered. “These are the same people that took Governor French’s daughter, and murdered her mother. If they’re coming from Boston they’ll take I95 and be here in less than… two more hours, but my guess. I need your help.”

Swan came to her feet then, coming around her desk to stand face to face with him. She looked him up and down, then glanced at the clock and he saw her moisten her lips, and swallow hard.

“You’re serious.”

“As smallpox,” he said. “Let Pitt out, send him home.”

“Gold, he’s drunk off his ass,” she said. “He couldn’t make it home if his life depended on it.”

“It does,” he snapped. “The first thing these people do is take out local law enforcement, which means they’ll come in here, probably with automatic weaponry. They won’t care if it’s officer or prisoner they take out, they’ll just take this place _apart._ ”

“Gold, what the fuck!” Swan said.

“Emma!” he snapped. “You’re not stupid, you understand what I’m saying.”

His familiarity seemed to break her inertia. She snatched up her keys and a bottle of drinking water and headed for the cells. Then, she cracked open the bottle of water and upended the it directly over Pitt’s face. He came awake spluttering.

“Your lucky day, Leroy,” she told him, “Go home! Straight home! If I find you out later, I’m going to be arresting you for more than just drunk and disorderly.”

She pulled him up off the cot and shoved him toward the exit, even as he started to sputter incoherently as he swayed and stumbled toward the door leading out into the street. Then she turned back to Gold.

“Okay, so that was my show of faith,” she said, folding her arms across her chest. “Supposing you tell me how you know all this.”

Gold sighed, his jaw tightened, and he sifted quickly through all the things he could tell her that would be true, and yet would allow him to maintain his distance from a past that was all too quickly catching up with him.

“They’re the reason I’m here,” he said, “in Storybrooke.”

“You had run-ins with them in the past, is that what you’re saying?” she asked.

“Something like that.” He ran a hand through his hair, exasperated that she was making him explain all of this when he’d _told_ her that time was at a premium.

“And now they’ve caught up to you.” she said. “This is about Belle, isn’t it? Where is she?”

“Safe.”

“Gold…”

“She’s _safe_ , Sheriff Swan,” he insisted. “The less you know, the better for you. You can’t tell them something you don’t know.”

“They can still beat me to death thinking I _do_.” she argued.

“Beating is not their style.”

“Dead is dead,” Swan said.

Gold sighed. Time was running out and he was standing arguing semantics with Emma Swan. He shook his head.

“I own a cabin in the woods,” he said. “She’s there.”

“Alone!” Swan protested. He pursed his lips, his anger and frustration rising. He could feel the heat of it in his face. “All right, all right,” Swan said at last. “What do you need from me?”

“Curfew,” Gold spat, and she gave him a quizzical look. “As hard as it might be to believe, I’ve come to be quite fond of this town in the last decade or so. This is my home, Emma, and the last thing I want is to see it come to harm. The town _or_ its people.”

“My God,” she said. “You _do_ have a heart.”

“Curfew?” he reminded her. “Close down the Rabbit Hole, get everyone home and tell them to stay indoors. Make up whatever bogus emergency you need. There’s provision for it in the town charter, just in case the mayor objects.”

“Fuck the mayor!” Swan said, as she snatched her jacket and began to shrug it on.

“I’d rather not,” he said dryly, and started toward the door.

“Where are _you_ going?” she asked, hurrying to catch up to him,

“As I said, I will use every resource at my disposal to ensure that these enforcers fail,” he said, without breaking stride.

“You realize that I could probably arrest you for the confession you’ve just made.”

“But you won’t,” he said, then slowing his step to hold the door for her, he added. “Good luck, Sheriff Swan.”

* * *

Alone in the cabin, Mister MacCalmain having long since left her to, from what she understood of his mime, patrol the woods surrounding them, Belle found herself unable to settle. Not knowing how long she’d be there, how long she’d be alone, whether or not she’d ever _see_ another human being again, she had already unpacked the box of groceries that MacCalmain had carried into the kitchen, and put them away; unpacked the clothing that she had brought with her and put the bag away in the space under the bed, and then searched the entire cabin for something to keep her occupied.

Nothing worked. She couldn’t even settle to her book, which sat open on her lap, the same page unread despite her eyes passing over the words several times in the space of as many minutes. Her mind wandered, the chill she’d suffered before the fire now hot in the grate had warmed up the cabin made her shoulder ache, and the ache made her remember…

_She tried not to wonder how many hours had passed since they dragged her from the room she’d shared with her mother, even as her mother fought. She shut out the memory of the screams she’d heard, and then the sudden silence as she was thrown into another room, one of her own, but no less a prison than she’d been in with her mum. She shrank back as she heard the voices outside her door, one obsequious, the other more arrogant than she’d ever heard a voice to be._

_“Why wait? She’s promised to you already right? What’s Duneach gonna do?”_

_“At least she’s beautiful. I suppose that’s something - even if she is a bit… insipid.” The handle began to turn, and there was the sound of a huff. “Still, I suppose if I take her in hand, she’ll soon learn what a man likes. Might even keep her to myself.”_

_The door opened to reveal a tall, dark haired bull of a man, who dominated the doorway, completely cutting off any escape and making a mess of all the hopeful planning she’d been imagining. Instead of darting to the door, she backed up, trying to keep some piece of furniture between herself and the man._

_“Oh, come on, my dear,” he said. “No need to be so coy… we’re going to come to know one another very well…”_

Belle started awake. All her pacing and anxiety, her fear for Gold had conspired against her, to leave her more tired than she had thought, and she had drifted into an unwilling sleep beside the fire.

She got up and began to pace the room again, to drive the sleep from herself. She couldn’t sleep - wouldn’t. Not until she knew what was happening; what had happened to Gold.

* * *

He knew something was amiss the moment he pushed open the door. The shop held a certain atmosphere, a certain kind of… sympathetic vibration with him, and it was disrupted. It was all wrong.

Knowing it would slow him down, at least a little, he shifted his grasp on his cane and continued across the shop towards the back room, his limp more pronounced. Had it not been that he needed the gun, and the ammunition, he would have turned around and left the shop. Everything was screaming at him to do so.

When it came, it was more like a shift in the air than a sound. On instinct, he shifted his grasp on the cane even more, took a longer step forward as he turned and swung behind him with as much force as he could. The handle met nothing but air, as the dark silhouette leaned back beneath the arc of the cane.

Gold took a step back, away from proximity with the intruder, reducing the risk of falling foul of any kind of counter attack. The attack was a verbal one, words that came out of the the back lit shape.

“And here they were, telling me you’d lost it, mate,” The voice was accented, with an underlying hint of sardonic mocking… and it was familiar. “Gone soft… slow.”

His hackles rose. He might have guessed that they’d send Jones first; perfect sense that the two people who would have the most likelihood to cause him to make mistakes, to rattle his sense of control would be the first they’d send against him. He wasn’t about to fall for such blatant emotional manipulation this time. Once had been enough. He’d allowed himself to be distracted by West. He wouldn’t allow Jones to be the one to push him over the edge; to make him forget himself.

He reached, slowly, inside his jacket, for the weapon he had there, but froze at the sharp ratchet-click of a hammer being pulled back.

“Tsk tsk, Reinauld,” Jones said, sounding almost genuinely hurt. “I’m deeply wounded you’d resort to that, after all we’ve been through together.”

Gold didn’t miss the hypocrisy of the statement, since Jones was currently pointing a gun at him, but he held, still and silent, letting Jones do all the talking, waiting for the moment, and it would come, when Jones would misstep. He would be ready. He was _more_ than ready.

Ten years… longer… of burying the humiliation; ignoring the internal jeering of finding his wife in the arms of another man. A man that hardened her, corrupted her, convinced her that all of the abhorrent, criminal acts of harm and degradation that were expected of them were acceptable, necessary… right.

...The man that had poisoned her heart and led her to abandon their son.

“What’s this? Cat got your tongue?” Jones went on, taunting slightly. “I expected more of you.”

“And that’s why they sent only you?” Gold, finally with his seething anger and reflexes under control, almost purred. “I think I’m insulted.”

“Don’t be,” Jones said, and by his tone, Gold immediately knew that Jones wasn’t the only one already in town. But how many…?

“So you think you’re…” Gold rumbled.

“Oh, we both know I’m more than your equal.” Jones chuckled, “I think that was proven many years ago.”

“And that’s why you need to hold me at gunpoint?” Gold smiled. It was cold and did not reach his eyes. “Tell me, how is that working out for you these days? Tied to the sad wreckage of what’s left over.”

“Careful, mate!” Jones growled, and Gold chuckled.

“Touched a nerve.” he hissed softly. “Always _was_ too easy to get under your skin.”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” Jones said. “Because when we get down to it; when this is done, I’m the one going to be leaving here with what I want. So… why don’t we discuss this like civilized gentlemen, because… I’d hate to have to hurt you.”

“Again,” Gold murmured, “You’re the one hiding behind the gun.”

There was a moment of silence, before Gold heard the slight, metallic rattle of the weapon being lowered. He stepped to the side, gesturing further into the shop as if in invitation, and said, “Shall we then?”

Jones began to move, and he kept pace, but counted his step. He knew the shop better than he knew the back of his hand; knew the space, knew the placement of the cases, knew the items within, and resting _on_ the cases.

“I’m not gonna beat about the bush,” Jones began as they moved, “We know she’s here. Out of respect for the Old Lady, I’m asking you nicely. Bring her to me, and we’ll be on our way. No harm, no foul, no hard feelings.”

Gold bristled again, hearing the words spoken to him so long ago… a different life - a different voice, and repeated deliberately now, he was certain of it. Jones was still trying to provoke him. He took a deep breath, and let it out slowly. It wouldn’t do to lose his temper now, not yet - not until he had Jones off balance - and it wouldn’t take much.

Gold counted slowly, silently, biding his time and making it seem as though he was considering Jones’ proposition before he eventually said, “Not going to happen, Dearie.” His voice turned colder, as he stopped moving and turned to face Jones. “You seem to have forgotten something _very_ important… something I promised you a _long_ time ago.” He stepped in closer to Jones then; cane resting apparently lightly on the ground at his side, and lowered his voice to a deadly whisper. “You stay away from me and mine, or I finish what I started. It only takes one call,” he felt, rather than saw, Jones’ muscles tighten as if the very air around him was becoming tense in response to Gold’s words. “And unlike _you,_ I know where to find my mark - let’s face it, Milah can’t exactly _go_ very far now, can she? Not any mor--”

He ducked to the side as Jones’ lunged, kicking up the bottom of his cane to catch it and bring the handle down sharply across Jones’ back. Hard. Jones grunted, stumbling forward, and Gold followed, swinging the cane again, not at Jones, but at the case toward which the man was tripping, shattering the glass just as Jones would have steadied himself against it.

Shards of glass sliced through Jones’ hand, and the sides of his face as he fell into the broken case, and from the top of the one beside, Gold snatched up the length of nylon halyard he’d recently acquired for Leroy Pitt’s boat, and tossed it to loop around Jones’ neck before the man could rise.

Winding the ends around his hands he pulled, dragging Jones backwards through the broken glass and onto the shop’s floor, using all his strength to tighten the cord until he heard Jones’ breath begin to rasp. Jones struggled and flailed, swinging wildly with his one good hand, catching Gold a glancing blow to the side of his jaw and he momentarily lost advantage over the taller man. The rope slackened, allowing Jones to draw breath, before Gold could tighten it again, and Jones found purchase enough with his feet to throw his weight backward, and drive Gold into the heavy wooden shelves on the opposite side of the shop.

For a moment, the impact winded Gold, but he maintained the presence of mind to wind the rope tighter around his hands and pull, ducking his head to the side as Jones threw back his head. The impact came against his shoulder, instead of his face, where he was certain Jones had meant the blow to fall.

The shelves rattled dangerously against the wall, and Gold rolled them aside. He needed information, and Jones _was_ going to give it to him. Whether or not he lived to regret it was as yet undecided.

Jones lashed backwards, the hook he habitually wore on the stump of his acid burned hand, tore through the sleeve of Gold’s suit and shirt, lacerating the flesh beneath, but Gold snarled, welcoming the pain and using its added strength to toss Jones to the ground, throwing him face down, and all but falling to plant a knee in the middle of Jones’ back.

He pulled up hard with the ends of the rope, even as he leaned down to demand, “How many?”

“Go to _hell_!” Jones rasped.

“Undoubtedly,” Gold said, “but not before you. How many!”

He pulled harder, and split his weight between the small of Jones’ back, and the wrist of his ruined hand. He drew a sharper cry of pain from Jones, and a moment later the yelp of an answer scratched out from between his lips.

“Four!” he gasped. “There are four of us.”

Gold eased up on the tension, allowing Jones the ghost of a breath, beginning to tire and not wanting to lose momentum. “Who else?” he demanded, though he doubted they would all be names that he would recognize.

“Linton, Smead and Foster,” Jones gasped.

“Foster?”

“New guy…”

“Try again,” Gold ordered, beginning to pull again.

“Tall,” Jones wheezed, “Dark and handsome… at least he was.”

Gold eased up again, some sixth sense telling him he needed to hear the reason for Jones’ explanation.

“Yes?”

“Recently took a tumble,” Jones coughed he drew in desperate breaths to his air starved lungs. “Didn’t do much for his face.”

“Where?” Gold asked.

“How would I kn--?”

“Where?” Gold pulled on the cord again, suddenly and hard.

“House,” Jones barely managed to get the words out. “Your place.” For the sheer audacity of the intrusion, no doubt at Jones’ orders, Gold pulled even harder, and Jones let out a panicked wheeze, “Wait… I told you…. I tol--”

Gold cut off anything else he might have said.

* * *

At the sound of footsteps on the wood of the porch, Belle leapt from the couch, half in fear, half in hope, and unknowing which of the two was the stronger emotion. Just in case she snatched up the poke from beside the fire and tried to make herself look larger - stronger and more confident than she was - as she hefted the makeshift weapon, even as, in the back of her mind, she feared that if whomever it was had gotten past MacCalmain, they were unlikely to succumb to her tiny bodkin.

The door opened, and she held her breath, fighting the trembling that was threatening to overtake her limbs at keeping the heavy poker aloft. Her stoppered breath went out of her in a rush as the light reveal Gold, looking tired, somewhat haggard and…

She flew at him, dropping the poker along the way, and wrapped her arms tightly around him, drawing a wince from him as he almost overbalanced and leaned back hard against the closing door. His arms caught her around the waist.

“You’re hurt!” she exclaimed, terrified.

“It’s nothing,” he told her.

“Rein!” she protested, and pulled back to catch his face between her hands, and catch his wince a second time.

“It _isn’t_ nothing,” she told him, “What happened?”

“Belle,” he started.

“Tell me,” she said, reaching up to run a gentle but desperate hand over his hair, through his hair.

“I’m fine,” he said, but she didn’t heed him, how could she? She could clearly see him hurting and her heart was twisting in her chest for it. She started to push at the shoulders and lapels of his suit. “Belle, I’m fine, really.”

She felt his hands at her upper arms, grasping her firmly, easing her away.

“You’re hurt,” she repeated. “You’re _not_ fine… oh, God!” She threw herself against him, wrapping her arms around his shoulders, the fingers of one hand running up into his hair as she pressed against him. “Oh, God, Rein! I can’t… I can’t lose you. Not now, not--”

“Belle stop!”

But she didn’t stop, didn’t want to. She needed him to know how much he meant to her. If people were coming after her, after him, then anything could happen to either of them, and before it did she needed him to know. She wanted him.

Without thinking, she began to plant soft, but needful kisses over his cheeks, against his jaw, and moving toward his lips.

“Belle, _stop_ ” His fingers tightened on her upper arms and he began to push her backwards and away. “Just fucking stop!”

“You don’t mean that,” she said, clinging to him as he pushed her away, feeling cold, feeling hurt. “Why are you acting like this?”

He leaned down to her, right into her face, shaking her, just a little, as he answered, “Because we can’t… I can’t…” He shook his head. “You don’t want this. Not from me; you could _never_ want this! I can’t, and I _won’t_ allow this to become some twisted kind of Stockholm Syndrome.”

“You’re wrong.” she said, struggling against his hold, trying to grasp his arms, as if she could, by her touch, remember the nights they spent in warm companionship; the nights they’d teetered on the edge of this very moment. “I know how I feel.”

She gasped as he shifted his grasp to take her by one upper arm and all but march the two of them toward the door to the bedroom, and glanced up at his face. At the coldness and fury she saw there - not of the gentleness showing in his eyes. A rush of doubt went through her; a trace of fear.

“What are you doing?” she asked as he threw open the door and all but tossed her onto the bed, leaning down to pin her in place. He was breathing hard, and almost trembling.

“This is what you want, isn’t it?” he spat, “Throw you down, take you hard? Make you mine?” He paused only to snatch a breath. “And then what? You realize it wasn’t what you wanted, that’s it’s all a lie. You don’t feel--”

“Why are you _being_ like this?” she begged. She felt cold, angry tears welling in her eyes. This wasn’t right. This wasn’t Rein. He was always gentle, congenial… affectionate.

“I warned you,” he growled at her. “We can’t _be_ this way, you can’t _feel_ this way. Not for me. I’m not the man you _think_ I am.”

“I don’t understand.” she all but whispered. “I know you… know what I want… and that’s you, I--”

“Those men out there,” he let go enough to point out into the darkness. “Those monsters. The ones that murdered your mother. The ones that want to hurt you, own you…” he caught hold of her again, and she pushed against him, a reflex as he pulled her closer, his nose against her nose. “I was _one_ of them!”

Before she’d even registered what she was doing, her hand lashed out and her palm stung, burned with the force of the blow as she made contact with the side of his face.

As if the slap had woken him, he froze, then snatched a breath, his face - for barely a second - crumpled into an expression of the agony of loss and betrayal, and then it was gone… became impassive as he let go of her, and pushed himself up, and without another word, turned and left the room.

She jumped as he slammed the door behind him, and in the next second, her angry tears broke over her like a squall. She lay down, pulled the covers up around her, and descended into her disappointment and shame.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for @killingkueen on Tumblr for the 2019 Rumbelle Secret Santa.

Emma pressed her back to one side of the open front doorway to Gold’s house, David did the same the other side. She’d called in her deputy when Gold had called, briefly, to tell her he’d had no choice but to defend himself against three armed intruders in his home… after already being attacked by one in his shop.

David nodded to her once, and then the both of them rolled around the doorway, each covering the other, flashlights and weapons in hand. There had clearly been a struggle. Various things lay scattered and broken in the hallway, and there were drips of a blood trail that led further into the house.

This was what Gold had warned her was about to happen, but she hadn’t truly believed, and faced with it now it sent a shiver through her. This kind of crap was supposed to happen in the big cities. Not in a peaceful, sleepy town like Storybrooke, and she wondered idly whether she could somehow charge Gold with bringing it here - some sort of ‘Grand Disturbance of the Peace.’

She covered the stairs while David move past the foot of them, covering the lounge, until they could both enter. Finding nothing and proclaiming the room, “Clear.”

They went room by downstairs room, and found the first of bodies in the kitchen. He was slumped on the floor by the kitchen sink, and even before David crouched down to try and find a pulse, she could see by the volume of blood on the floor that there was little hope of him being alive. It wasn’t going to take an autopsy to figure out the cause of death, for the gaping hole he had in the front of his chest.

Finding nothing more downstairs, they worked their way upwards, but Emma guessed they wouldn’t find anyone alive.

The second body, they found in what looked like a guest bedroom, where closet doors had been all but ripped off their hinges, and the mattress lay upturned beside the bed frame, which sat stubbornly on its side.

“It’s as if they were searching for something,” David mused quietly, looking at each of the open doors, and the way the bed had been overturned, clearly by someone of great strength.

“Or someone,” Emma agreed.

“Well, they clearly found someone,” David pointed at the corpse, “Or at least he did.”

He carefully covered the firearm that lay by the man’s outstretched hand with a cloth, and picked it up, placing it into an evidence bag he pulled out of his jacket.

“Gold, by my guess,” Emma agreed, a brief examination having told her that he’d been beaten to death, or at least into unconsciousness and had died after.

“Guess it really doesn’t do to piss that guy off,” David quipped, trying to ease the tension. “You said Gold told you there were three?” She nodded. “Then I guess the third must have gotten away, because there’s no one else here.”

Emma stood up from where she was crouching beside the body, and together they went back downstairs, radioing to the medical examiner’s office at the hospital that the house was safe, and they could collect the bodies, while David made another quick investigation of the evidence that was visible, turning only when he came up to her, a little out of breath.

“I found a blood trail. I only followed it a little way, but I think it could be our third man.” He brought her to the end of the trail, at least as far as he had followed it, and watched as he shone his flashlight further along the deer track that led away from Gold’s back yard.

“Where does this go?” she asked him, nodding to the trail.

“Into Storybrooke Forest,” he said.

* * *

Gold left the cabin without so much as another word, seething, hating himself for his harshness, despising himself that he had laid a hand on Belle with the intention to frighten her, and coming apart at the seams in the knowledge that he had probably done exactly as he had meant to do: pushed her away. To make her hate him.

His cheek still stung with heat where her hand had collected with his face. He deserved it. He had no doubt of that… so he also had no doubt that when all of this way was over, and Belle was finally, truly, safe, would be when his heart would break, because that would be the moment when she would leave, and he would never see her again.

Before that, however, he had promised he would keep her safe, so, as painful as it was, that was what he would do. There would be time for tears later, and he knew he’d shed them - he could feel them rising in him even now.

Slowly, controlled and silently he made his way out from the area of the cabin. He’d walk the perimeter, find MacCalmain and make sure everything was safe and quiet. He wouldn’t even allow himself to believe if he went back, and apologized to Belle, she would forgive him.

He had walked most of the perimeter, and still had not spotted MacCalmain. Yes, he’d told his associate to stay out of sight, but even calling to him softly had elicited no response. He made a second turn around the perimeter… then he found him.

The silent giant was half masked by a tree that at first glance seemed as though it had fallen in a storm. On closer inspection, he realized that the tree, and another like it had been all but torn out of the ground, He had walked onto a battle ground. MacCalmain was face down in among last years fallen leaves.

He swallowed hard, unable to imagine what kind of man might bring his loyal associate down. He didn’t truly want to know whether MacCalmain was dead or alive, and in the darkness could not any kind of movement from his chest. He would have to draw closer. As he leaned down to feel for a pulse, the snap of a branch sounded behind him and he whirled around to face his would-be attacker. His heart stopped beating as he saw her, standing calmly, as if the two were friends, and not bitter ex-rivals -- of a sort.

“Hello, Rein,” she purred, “Told you I’d see you soon, didn’t it.”

He didn’t have time to answer, before she pulled the trigger of the weapon she was holding, and the white hot pain burned through his side, dragging him down into darkness.

* * *

Belle couldn’t tell what first made her sit up, wipe the tears from her face, and start to look around the cabin’s bedroom for something she could use as a weapon. She couldn’t find anything - save as before - the poker from the fire, so she hefted it, moving to the room’s middle where she might have more space, wielding it as she’d seen described in some of the books she’d read, as though it were some kind of Great Sword. _Do the brave thing_ … she told herself, taking a deep breath, as she heard the footsteps mount the wooden deck. The door opened, creaking slightly. It had opened differently when Rein had come in, so she knew it wasn’t him, and though the tread was heavy, as if MacCalmain were returning, there was something about it that wasn’t at all right.

The intruder - because she had decided that was what it was - continued as if looking around the cabin, moving inexorably toward where she stood, trembling in the middle of the bedroom. Her heart began to race as the floorboard, right before the door, creaked, and her mouth went dry as she heard the sound of the catch being released, before the door began to slowly swing open.

On legs that felt like pudding, barely able to breathe for the tightness of fear in her chest, and limbs that tingled as though a thousand ants crawled all over them, her palms became instantly sweaty against the warmed metal of the poker. As soon as the door was open wide enough, Belle launched herself at the figure that entered the room, but her intended cry of anger meant to bolster her spirits died in her throat as if a hand had closed around her windpipe as soon as she could see who it was.

The tall, thickly built man grinned as soon as he saw her, and laughed softly at her show of defiance, even as that defiance died in the face of him. He was still the same bull of a man, but the grin revealed the gruesome truth of the injuries he had suffered to his face and as the grin he gave her cracked the swollen weeping cheek where evidence of medical tape still hung like a ribbon from beneath his eye.

“You…” she breathed out in a rush. Her voice was high pitched in the terror, not of his once handsome, now hideous appearance - as though some kind of magical, but distorting mirror, had place the inner image of the man upon the outside for all to see - but in recognition of who it was. “I… it can’t be.”

“Hello, my little Belle,” he said, his voice at least remained the same - that that was cold comfort, given all that he had used it for to tell her the last time they had met. “I told you that you belong to me… seems now, I’m going to have to teach you more than a few lessons… and show you what that means.”

“But… but you… you fell,” she stammered, backing up as he took measured steps, deliberately small steps so that it would take him a while to reach her… prolong the hunt… tenderize the meat. “You fell.” she repeated, “I pushed you and you fell.”

He shrugged a little, offering another sickly smile.

“I saw you, I saw you!” she said, “You fell, and hit the fountain underneath. I saw you dead. You can’t be here, you can’t b--”

She broke off with a scream as reached out for her more quickly that a man of his size should have been able to move, and slapped aside her defensive swing with the poker, grabbed her wrists in powerful hands and pulled her closer until he could wind her hair around his fingers. He pulled her head back until she cried out again from the pain he caused in the back of her neck, and leaned right into her face.

The stench of his blood ladened breath seeped into her own, he said with quiet menace, “Lesson one…”

* * *

Gold woke with a start, and then stifled the cry of pain that burned in him. He struggled against the bindings that held him to a chair in a darkened room, facing a computer screen. He had seconds, he knew, before his awakened state would be discovered, and knew he had only that time to compose himself against anything that would happen, but composure eluded him in the sure and certain knowledge that with his capture, and with the state of MacCalmain the last time he’d seen him, that he had failed her. He had failed to keep Belle safe.

The computer screen before him came to life, an immaculately dressed, dark haired woman who stared back at him, tipped her head and as if knowing exactly what he was thinking said, “You shouldn’t feel too badly about it, Reinauld. You were never going to be able to keep her safe… or keep her for yourself for that matter, not from the moment Jefferson brought her to you.”

His quick mind grasped at all the pieces of the puzzle that had suddenly been thrown into his lap and assembled them as quickly as he had when he and Belle had worked together to mend the crockery he had broken.

“It wasn’t about her.” he said, “It was never about her.”

“Oh really, Rein, it took you _this_ long to figure that out.” She sighed exaggeratedly, “Mummy _takes_ little girls, and little boys come to that, and makes them her own, or had you forgotten. But Mummy never likes anyone to ‘get away,’ so no… though she’s been useful, and continues to be even now to cement alliances with those that might otherwise have been our rivals, no. It was never about her.”

“So help me, if you so much as _touch_ her!”

“Such passion,” she said, “It might almost have been worth seeing what you’d to agree to if I could… save her from that fate, but… no.” Fiona Duneach shook her head, “That ship has sailed. That one’s a done deal.”

“Let her _go!_ ” he snarled all the same, dread and fear and hate and failure burning him, heart and body and soul.

“Never did listen, did you..?” Duneach said, as if disappointed. “You crossed me, Reinauld, and if I’m going to keep this organization under control, my people must understand that no one, not even my own son, gets away with betrayal like that. Zelena?”

From somewhere behind him he heard footsteps and then Zelena Green stepped into view, and faced the camera on the computer. “I’m here, Mother Duneach,” she said.

“Make him suffer, there’s a dear,” Duneach said, “I trust you’ll teach him the lesson that Mummy knows best, and be sure he tells you where to find Baeden, Dearie, before he dies.”

The screen went black once more, and Gold turned his head, staring at Zelena in the sure and certain knowledge that West would do _exactly_ what his mother had told her to do… except for the one thing Duneach had asked for last of all, because he would _never_ reveal, to his mother or to anyone else just where he had left his son, being cared for until his might wake. No amount of pain, or suffering would convince him to do that. He had failed him once, and if he could protect Bae by his own death, then so be it. Zelena would do as she had been told, unless…

“Zelena,” he rasped, his tongue still thick from where he had bitten it when she tazed him.”Listen to me… I can help you. You can _be_ where she is.”

“You think it would be _that_ easy to convince me to turn against Fiona?” She stepped toward him uncapping a hypodermic needle as she did. “Do I _look_ that stupid.”

“No,” he said at once, looking up at her as she moved to straddle him where he sat in the chair. “Hungry. You look _hungry_ ,” he told her. “Tired of playing second fiddle.”

He swallowed as she ran a hand over his shoulders. His jacket had been removed - his waistcoat too, and her touch scalded him through only the silk of his shirt.

“I know how it feels,” he persisted. “Lived my entire life in her shadow - her second best for as long as I can remember. Why do you think I got out…?”

“They said you had a… change of heart,” Zelena answered, and he felt her starting to waver, starting to believe what she _wanted_ to believe, rather than the truth that he would give to her.

“ _They_ say… a lot of things,” he pitched his voice low as she cupped his chin, making him look up at her, making him meet her eyes. “ _They_ don’t know what the hell they’re talking about. I wanted out, yes… and I wanted to take my son with me… because I knew… _knew_ that I could be better than her.” he held her Zelena’s gaze, moistened his lips, “She’s old now, Zelena… and I still know _all_ her little secrets.”

He let his voice drop to a whisper, “And they could _all_ be yours.”

“For a price?” Zelena swallowed as she voiced the first indication that she was listening, and still far more susceptible to his levels of persuasion than even _he_ could have hoped.

“Everything comes with a price,” he told her, shallowing his breath and shifting in his seat beneath her. “All you have to ask yourself is if you’re willing to pay it… or not.”

He felt her fingers slide down his arms, and he forced himself to stillness. This… seduction… he was attempting could have gone two ways, and while he would have endured whatever path she decided, he was more than relieved that she decided to be more direct than taking a sexual path to power. He might not have been able to maintain that for long. She disgusted him. The ropes around his wrists went slack, and he shook his hands free of their bindings before she could change her mind, or come to her senses. Instead he wrapped his arms around Zekena’s back, teasing with his fingers until she leaned down and moaned against his neck, and he could run the fingers of one hand into her hair, and the other down to clasp her fingers in his own, catching the smooth cylinder she held between their joined hands.

“What do I have to do,” she murmured.

“Oh, it’s really simple, Dearie,” his hand in her hair shifted its grasp, he tightened his fingers round her own, and then suddenly tugged backwards and to the side on her hair, and he supposed to someone as delusional as Zelena tended to be, he _might_ have been about to lavish kisses on her exposed skin. Her breathing had become shallow, and he held his own, before letting out a single word in a rush.

“Die.”

Faster than he’d ever moved in his life, Gold bent his hand and Zelena’s, upward to her neck, a single strike that drove the needle deeply into her flesh and pushed the plunger in the same moment, releasing the cocktail of drugs into her system. He held her tightly as she tried to move away. Some of her hair tearing from her scalp in her frantic effort.

“No!” she wailed, “You can’t! You… your code!”

He pushed her backwards, enough to tear open the front of the green cotton blouse she wore, to access the hidden blade he knew she kept there. He should know. She had used it against him often enough in the past.

He laughed coldly. “Code…? Oh, Zelena, you poor, poor, deluded creature.” He shook his head as he looked up and down along the length of the blade, now in his hand, and whispered, “My code… only applies to a lady.”

He pressed the tip of the blade against her skin at the base of her sternum, and pushed, hard, twisting his hand as he did so, and kept the cord of her hair wound around the other, as she jerked… spasmed… and finally grew still.

It was only _then_ that he began to feel the pain that began burning its way up from his thigh.

* * *

“Goddamn it to hell!”

Belle whimpered as Foster - for so he was called, moved away from her instead of trying to drag her into the room. Twice they’d been interrupted. Once at the cabin when one of his men had stumbled into the bedroom where she struggled to get free of Foster’s attentions to warn him that the law was combing the forest, and again when they had arrived at the mansion, and he was attempting to take what he said had been granted to him, when others had pulled open the door and told him that West wanted to see him.

When he came to her a third time, in an upstairs room of the enormous mansion, one that held a horrible verisimilitude to the house where she’d first been kept, and where she believed she had caused his death by accident, by virtue of pushing him away, against a balustrade that did not have the strength to hold him, she doubted she would be as lucky to stay safe.

Approaching sirens had been her immediate salvation, and then, as he pulled away from her, the door opened, more accurately was thrown back on its hinges to bounce off the wall behind, and Foster was confronted by a much smaller figure. Smaller, and more furious.

“Rein!”

He made no sign of recognition of her voice. His face contorted and he threw himself at Foster, grabbing the man by his wrist and hand, and twisted with all his might as he grasped Foster’s pinkie finger.

There was a moment, then an audible crack, and then Foster cried out, as if in mortal agony. Rein’s attack on the enormous man had been the epitome of the cliche that the bigger they are, the harder they fall. Foster fell away from Rein, cradling his hand as though it were a delicate flower, and for his efforts, Gold picked up the nearby antique chair and smashed it across his nose.

Only then did he hold out his hand toward Belle.

Almost sobbing with relief, Belle threw herself toward him, and for the briefest of moments, he caught her in one arm and held her against his side. Her heart soared, and the tears she had been holding inside returned.

“We haven’t much time,” he told her, and she frowned, hearing his voice laced with obvious pain. She opened her mouth to say something but he shook his head, and told her, again, “We have to go.”

From downstairs came the shouts. “Police, put down your weapons,” before the entire house seemed to erupt in gunfire. Gold stooped for a moment to snatch up the gun that Foster had dropped. He pulled the clip, and checked the chamber, before reassembling the gun, and taking Belle’s hand to draw her from the room.

“Back stairs,” he gasped, and this time she did not allow him to prevent her from asking.

“What’s wrong?”

He simply shook his head, and lead her along the landing, ducking into alcoves to avoid stray bullets that were heating the air with deadly energy. A trio of Zelena’s men came hurrying along the landing toward them, the first of them fell at a single shot from Gold’s gun, even as he pulled Belle into his side to avoid the spray of blood. The other two flattened themselves against the wall, and behind plinths, and Belle felt Gold push her back the way they’d come. She covered her ears against the hateful sounds of the exchange of gunfire.

It was short lived though, and soon enough she felt Gold take her hand again and keeping her close, thread their way toward their target - the back staircase that led down to a small anteroom, before an inner courtyard.

* * *

At the top of the stairs, Gold faltered. He had no choice. He couldn’t bear the cramping, burning, torture that was running through every part of him in that moment. He threw himself against the wall, deliberately banging his head, not once but twice against the marble pillar beside the doorway. Seeing stars.

The third time, Belle’s gentle hand caught his cheek and stopped him.

“Rein, please… what’s going on?”

“I cant!” he gasped. Then took a deep breath and breathed it out feeling the insidious creeping pain moving closer and closer to the middle of his chest. The poison was still only in his limbs, his extremities, but it wouldn’t be long before it reached his lungs, his other organs. His heart. “Belle, I’m sorry,” he breathed out. “Down these stairs, go through the courtyard and around the side of the house to the front. The police will… Emma will keep you safe.”

“I’m not leaving--”

“Touching!”

Gold pushed away from the wall, raising his weapon, and pushing Belle behind him as Milnor’s mocking voice interrupted them.

“Jefferson!” he gasped.

“Agent Milnor, you have to--”

Belle had started to move past him, but Gold caught her arm, pulling her one way, and stepping the other as an audible click from Milnor’s weapon told him that he’d slipped the safety off, and pulled back the slide to put a round in the chamber. They each stood staring at the other down the barrels of their guns.

“You…” Gold sighed, remembering what his mother had told him, “Why?”

“You remember that call, Gold?” Jefferson asked bitterly. “The one where you asked me if I were out?”

“Yeah.” Gold said, making sure that Belle remained behind him. He watched as Jefferson’s eyes flicked up for barely a second, and he tipped his head back towards the doorway behind him, Gold's heart, which had sunk into his shoes, leaped briefly in understanding, and he gave the barest of nods.

“Well, what do you know? Just like old times, huh?”

Hurried footsteps on the stairs, coming up from below broke the inertia, as the sounds of more arrivals began to filter down from above.

“Drop it!” Emma’s voice rang out as she crested the stairs, her own weapon shifting from Gold to Milnor and back again., “Drop it, both of you!”

Gold and Jefferson both reacted at the same time, stepping towards each other and both of them grasping Belle by the arms and giving her a gentle but insistent push toward Storybrooke’s Sheriff.”

“Go with Emma!” Gold told her.

And to Emma, Milnor added, “Milnor, FBI. Get her out of her!”

Gold’s last sight of Belle was of Emma wrapping her leather clad arm around her shoulders and pulling her unwillingly down the stairs, both of them ducking the sudden explosion of gunfire. Then he completed his forward step, pressed his back to Jefferson’s and the two of them opened fire.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for @killingkueen as part of the 2019 Rumbelle Secret Santa

Gold was utterly sick of the taste of hospital food. He was equally sick of the alternating obsequiousness and condescending visits from Doctor Whale. He was heartsick, and lonely, and wanted nothing more than to go home.

Milnor visited him shortly after he’d woken and had spent hours apologizing for everything. They’d had Grace. They had discovered his duplicity, and had simply walked into her school and against the protests of her teachers, had walked out with her, and were keeping her somewhere as collateral against him turning in evidence - were using _him_ as their ‘man on the inside’ and so were keeping one step ahead of the law.

Jones had sung like a canary when they promised to fund Milah’s continuing healthcare needs, to keep her as comfortable, and as well as she could be considering her compromised health, and though Gold felt no remorse for what he’d done to Milah, he would never forgive himself that in all of this, Belle - the beautiful and compassionate sweet Belle - had gotten completely caught in the crossfire.

Emma told him Belle had returned to Boston, and had testified against her father’s involvement with his mother’s criminal operation, and although his mother’s whereabouts, and the location of the center of her operations remained unknown, together they had all dealt her a terrible blow, and must have sent her organization back several decades.

Some time after he’d first awoken, he’d been allowed to make an encrypted call to his aunts in the remote location - in the midst of the Scottish Highlands - to settle his mind that Bae was still unharmed. They had told him his condition remained unchanged. He’d never forgive himself for that either.

They had insisted he speak with a counselor for the apparently deep depression that had settled over him in the wake of the events surrounding the, “Devastating Fire,” as it had been reported, that had completely destroyed the mansion on the edge of town, and so he’d spent many pointless weeks enduring the visit of Doctor Hopper, who, while he listened well, and allowed Gold several hours to get everything off his chest, Gold doubted very much that he could possibly understand the depth of feelings and loss that he was under, but he managed to convince Archie to give him a clean enough bill of psychiatric health that the hospital had no further reason to hold him. The DA had determined that in the matter of the intruders to his home, he had acted in self defense and no charges would be brought against him. Once more, he had slipped the noose of his criminal past… just not the guilt of it.

Ruby had brought him one of his suits, and told him that she and her grandmother, along with Ashley, had cleaned up the mess left in his home, and that his cupboards were filled to bursting with good food, and that during his enforced home rest period, he would not starve.

Gold fastened his tie, looking at himself in the mirror one last time, trying to decide if he preferred the new hair cut to his longer style. It made him look older, he thought, but also more distinguished, because the gray was more visible. Not that it mattered. No one would be looking at it very much anyway, so if he decided he didn’t like it, he could always grow it out. He nodded once to the nurses at the nurses station, and made his way out into the cold, winter air of Storybrooke.

It was almost the Holidays, and the homes and businesses of the town were decorated with annoyingly cheerful strings of colored lights, and garland, and glass ornaments that hung on the many evergreens that were always replanted in Storybrooke Forest’s evergreen groves when the spring came again. He found himself torn whether to hope that Ruby and Widow Lucas would have gathered a tree and garlands and lights for his home. Part of him wanted that, and part of him thought that he only deserved to sit in the darkness and let the season pass him by.

* * *

When Jefferson had first visited, after her father’s trial, she hadn’t dared to ask after Gold. Shortly after leaving Storybrooke, she had found out about the poison that Zelena had injected into Rein shortly before he had found his way to rescue her… and that in exerting himself as he had, the poison had spread more quickly, and he had been close to death when he sent her away with Emma.

She cried for the loss of him, assuming when he did not contact her that they hadn’t been able to save him. Jefferson had told her that he’d been shot a couple of times too, deliberately putting himself in harm's way to protect the FBI agent.

Gold had been a savior, and in spite of his past - the extent of which she still did not know or understand - no one could take that from him.

With no family remaining, and a desire to escape the limelight of being the witness that had brought the Duneach Cartell low, Belle had searched her heart and decided that the one place she wanted to be, the only place she wanted to find peace, was in the town where she had been saved. It would be hard, she knew, to be there and not see Rein, but it would be easier than the endless interviews, and constant bodyguards that followed her everywhere and prevented her from leading a normal life.

Jefferson had been the one to deliver her to the town line - he’d explained that it was a kind of ‘tradition’ and that at this time of year, he would not be the first to break with tradition. Waiting for her by the town line, she smiled to to MacCalmain, looking a little older, but none the worse for his brush with death. He offered her a bow, and a smile, and gestured toward the dark colored Cadillac that he had already turned toward town. Milnor gave her an odd smile as he nodded his farewell.

“See you around, Beauty,” he said, before he got into his own vehicle and began to drive away, and she chuckled as she remembered his licence plate.

As MacCalmain drove her into Storybrooke, she closed her eyes, and expected that he’d take her straight to Granny’s Bed and Breakfast. It was late, and it had been a long journey from Boston thanks to the Holiday travel. All she wanted to do was sleep. She was surprised when she opened her eyes, to find herself sitting in the Cadillac that was parked on the driveway of the house that had been Gold’s. 

“There must be some mistake,” she said to him softly. “I made a reservation at Granny’s. I’m supposed to be staying there.”

MacCalmain shook his head, and got out of the car to take her hand and help her out. He gave her a gentle push toward the porch.

She swallowed, looking between MacCalmain, and the house, and to the dim lights, - she swore she saw them twinkle - that shone out from the windows MacCalmain nodded, and held out a key to her, reaching out to wipe away the tears that had gathered in her eyes. He nodded again, and mouthed silently.

“Home.”

She mounted the step up to the porch, and trembling, put the key into the lock. It worked without a hitch, the door swinging open easily on well oiled hinges. She took in a breath and the scent of Holiday spice and warm spruce logs filled her with a warmth that began to take away the chill, then she closed the door, turning for a moment to lay her head against the cool wood, as emotion threatened to overcome her. 

Behind her, she heard the shuffle of a step, an indrawn breath and then…

“Belle…?”

She turned, a hand flying to her mouth, her fingers trembling, tears gathering in her eyes anew.

“Rein!” his name flew from her lips, like a sob. “I thought--!”

He shook his head, and took another step toward her.

“Belle,” he said again. “I’m sorry, Belle, I never meant for you to get mixed up in all of that.”

She shook her head and took a step towards him, words tumbling from her lips in a single stream, her heart suddenly overflowing, beating again.Where she was once chilled more than she had even known there was suddenly warmth.

“It wasn’t your fault,” she said, “It was never your fault. I didn’t ever blame you. It didn’t ever stop me feeling the way I do about you.”

“I love you, Belle. I think I did from the moment Jefferson dropped you on my doorstep.” He shook his head, “I don’t know how. I don’t know why, and I don’t really care. You… brought such light into the darkness that was my life before I knew you. Redemption, in a way. Redemption that I don’t deserve.”

“You do. You’re a good man, Reinauld.” she reached for him and he took her hands in his, drawing her closer.

“You _made_ me a better man,” he said simply.

They moved as one. He released her fingers, and tenderly slipped his arms around her waist. She leaned against him for a moment, her arms then sliding around his shoulders as he dipped his mouth to find hers. His lips parted hers softly, and she opened to him, welcoming the brush of his tongue against hers, tasting the spiced wine he’d been drinking, and the scent that was uniquely him filled her, warmed her, chased away the last of her fear. His lips pressed, and released against hers, their tongues clashed and she shared his breath until even breathing together was too much separation, and with another breath they began again. He mapped her mouth, his tongue tracing over her lips and teeth and tongue, becoming a part of her as she became of him, and when at last, she became too breathless to even be sustained by his closeness, she drew away, and he rested his forehead to hers, as she whispered, “I love you.”

He smiled then, and she took his offered hand as he led her into the lounge.

* * *

Gold watched, lost in the beauty of the moment, as she tugged the cushions and pillows from the chairs and the couch, arranging as she always used to do, a little nest for them to settle in, before the fire. He moved past her, as if awakening from a dream, and carefully rebuilt the fire in the grate, and turning asked, “Can I get you a drink?”

“Cocoa?” she asked, hope clear in her voice, and he chuckled with a nod.

“It won’t take long,” he promised, and nodding she turned back to her endeavor, and settled, he saw as he turned toward the kitchen, like a little dormouse curled in the nest she had just made.

Tears welled in his eyes as he made the cocoa, relief and love and longing, all of them together flooding him. He could not stop them and he didn’t care to; carried the steaming mugs on a tray, as he limped half blind back to the lounge, to ask, “May I” as she took the tray from him, and nodded to the cushions beside her.

“Please,” she told him softly, barely giving him time to settle before she leaned against him, as though she didn’t want to be apart any more.

“You cut your hair,” she said, her voice a gentle murmur against him.

“At the hospital,” he answered, and sighed as she nuzzled at him tenderly.

“I like it.” she said.

They drank their cocoa in silence, a deep and peaceful kind of warmth around them, but in time, the air thickened. He glanced at her, to find her watching him, her eyes moving over his face, taking him in, and he felt it almost like a physical touch. His breathing quickened and he felt himself stir, barely, but enough for him to know his heart's want.

He reached out to take the cup from her fingers, and set it aside along with his own before he cupped her face in his hands, the most precious pearl, a light within his palms as he leaned closer to kiss her. His kiss was soft this time, slow and patient, tentative, almost. When his lips parted hers, and his tongue drew the line of her mouth against the inside of her lips, she moaned softly, shifted closer and her fingers slipped upward along the center of his chest, to find the knot of his tie.

“I want you, Belle,” he whispered as his kisses slipped from her mouth to trace along the shape of her jaw, small, soft kisses, tiny nips against her skin which he swept a tender brush of his tongue following the sharpness, soothing and inflaming, both at once. “Make love with me?”

She nodded, and nuzzled at his cheek.as she pulled the silk of his tie from out of its knotted shape, sliding the length of it through the collar of his shirt, setting it carefully aside as he reached for her again. His fingers fluttered at the buttons on her blouse, just as she unfastened his shirt. His gasp as she was revealed to him, her perfect breasts cupped within the confines of her bra, was almost reverent, and blushing, her expression almost bashful, she reached behind herself to unfasten it, freeing the weight of her breasts to settle into his worshipful touch as she shrugged off her blouse and bra, then reached to push at the shoulders of his shirt. 

Her nipples pebbled against his fingertips and against his palms as he cupped her, more confident that his touch was welcome. The more her body awoke to him, the more his answered, and he shifted to relieve the pressure of his growing hardness. He released her long enough to shrug out of his shirt. Then gathered her against him, craving the feeling of her body against his, skin to skin as he lay her back, laying his still recovering heart over hers, to rest there, losing himself to renewed kisses, the feel of her hands, like the touch of butterfly wings over his back, soothing and maddening both at the same time.

He ran his hands over her as he pulled back enough to let his kisses descend from her neck to her shoulders, across the tops of her breasts, his hands teasing lower still, over her belly, and the tops of her thighs over her skirt, anywhere but where he was so desperate to touch her.

His lips closed around a nipple, first one and then the other, and she arched her back, a soft, moaning cry escaping her lips the cry pulling at him, wrapping around his awakened length like a touch that knew him, wanted him; knew him to his very soul.

Unspoken, she sat up, but only enough to reach for his hands and draw them to the fastening of her skirt as she found his belt and released the buckle, unfastened his pants and carefully lowered the zipper. Her fingertips, her fingernails drew along his length and he moaned, tugging off her skirt and encouraging her to slip her hands inside and push down his pants.

“Yes,” she whispered, “I want to see you… feel you… I want all of you.”

He kissed her again, a deep slow kiss, burning with passion, banked like a night fire, arms holding tight to one another for a moment before they each began to wrest freedom from their restricting underwear, the rest of their clothes to be at one with each other as their dual natures intended. He reached for her again, and she lay slowly back, always just out of reach until she let him catch her, wrap his arms around her and settle against her, naked, and warm; tender and hard against her.

“Have you…?” he asked gently, and blushing again, she shook her head.

He closed his eyes, and whispered, “I don’t want to hurt you.” but she smiled and laid a finger softly across his lips.

* * *

“I want to be yours,” she whispered, finding his eyes with hers, watching with a rising blush as his eyes moved over her, taking her in, wonder showing nestled in the emotion in his eyes.

He smiled, a little wryly, and shook his head.

“I will be yours,” he told her equally as quietly as she had spoken.

She leaned up then to kiss him, and to draw his head down to rest against her shoulder. She nuzzled at his ear, pressed a line of tender kisses there before she murmured, “Then we shall belong to each other.”

He lifted his head and moved to find her mouth with his own, his breath making words against her lips. “I can live with that,” before kissing her deeply, pressing the whole of him, skin to skin against her. 

Her belly tumbled in a fluttering excitement as she felt the hardness of him against her thigh, where he nestled over her, his eyes a caress moving over her breathless awareness of his nearness.

“Rein,” she breathed, and he hushed her gently with a kiss, long and slow as his fingers mapped her body, and he followed with open mouthed kisses, nips and wet caresses of his tongue, that soothed the sharpness and left her moaning and arching to his touch.

His lips closed around a nipple once more, the pads of his thumb and forefinger pinching gently against the other, before changing places. He lavished attention on her breasts until she was dizzy with sensation; until she felt herself swollen, wet and aching with the sweetness of her need for more.

Only then did his kisses descend still further, over her belly, to nuzzle in her tight, neat curls. She whimpered softly as his hands teased in an ever rising caress along the insides of her thighs, and she parted her legs, wanting to feel his breath; needing him to soothe the ache with the warmth of it.

“May I touch you?” he whispered, his fingers barely a breath away from the heat of her center, teasing against the crease of her inner thighs.

“I want you to.” The words trembled in the air between them, and then became a soft cry as his touch parted her folds, gliding in her wetness, as his kisses pressed against her. She cried out again at the first touch of his tongue against her clit, his fingers still stroking, teasing, driving her to madness.

She reached for him, running her fingers through his hair, her nails scraping against his scalp, and he moaned, the vibration against her center, against the sensitive and risen nub drawing another soft cry from her, a cry that became words, two words, and one his name.

“Reinauld, please…!”

Still he lapped and teased at her, but then she felt his touch at her entrance, beginning slowly to glide within and she clenched around his touch as the sensations began to rise and fill her with increasing need. She moaned softly, the sound becoming higher, at the in and out glide of his finger, first one, and then a second, filling her, teasing her, drawing all of the emotion, all of the feelings everything that she was to a single, bright point, which grew and brightened until she could hold no longer. Her body was taught with her approaching climax, and he raised his head, briefly meeting her eyes before she closed hers, her body moving with the push and pull within her as he shifted slightly to allow his thumb to circle and stroke her oversensitive clit until she broke with a shrill cry, trembling as her muscles clenched around his fingers.

He slowed but did not stop the touch as she surrendered to her orgasm, until she could finally take a trembling breath, and reach for him again, from where her hands had fallen to grip the cushions.

“I need you, Rein,” she whispered and as he rose up to cover her, leaning on his elbows, he tenderly framed her face with his hands. His fingers were heavy with her own scent, and when he leaned down to kiss her, she could taste herself on his lips and tongue.

“You’re sure?” he murmured against her mouth, and in answer she reached between them, her fingertips brushing against the scalding head of his cock.

* * *

He gasped softly as her fingertip teased around his aching length, needing her, needing to be inside her, a part of her, inseparable ever after.

He trailed a hand to entwine their fingers, where hers met his risen need, guiding her touch along the length of him, around his girth. His breathing quickened, as she used the contact of their hands to guide him, brushing him against her, between her soaking folds, to coat him with her wetness, leaving him slick and nuzzled up against her entrance.

He released her hand then, and she ran a touch over his hip to press against the small of his back as she lifted her knees, parting her legs until her thighs were pressed against his hips. With a trembling hand, and leaning down to kiss her as he did, he guided himself barely inside her, hissing in pleasure as she gripped him tightly, stilling for a moment to allow her to adjust to the fullness of him inside her.

“Oh, Belle,” he murmured softly as he ended the kiss, though hardly moved his lips away from hers, and she opened her eyes to meet his loving gaze, and saw the same reflected back at him, sincere and true.

He moved then, rolling his hips to press deeper within her, drawing out just a little, only to press close once more. He heard the change in her breathing, felt the tension in her body and tried to ease away, but she clutched at him, arching her back to take him deeper, fully within her as he rolled his hips toward her one more, and he took her completely with a slow, sure thrust.

Her breath hitched, and she stifled a cry, and he felt his eyes fill with tears, his whole body trembling as he with the imagined need for restraint, but she reached up to cup his face in her hands, to bring his forehead to hers, and whispered, “Don’t… don’t stop.” and kissed him deeply, as she moved to wrap her legs around him.

His head was spinning. She was so hot, and wet and tight around him that she drove him to the edge of sweet madness with each move they made, tension easing, for a time at least. She began to rise to meet each of his long, slow thrusts inside of her, becoming breathless, squeezing his cock as he pressed deeper inside her.

“Yes,” she gasped as he increased his pace, slipped a hand beneath the small of her back to draw her closer. “Rein, please…!”

She drew a sharp breath, as she tightened still more around him, becoming almost painful, but in the sweetest of ways as he felt the approach of her climax.

He knew he, too, wouldn’t last. His body trembled with the rise of his bliss, climbing with her, his balls hot and heavy, tight with the need for release.

“Sweetheart,” he gasped, “Oh, my Belle!”

“My love,” she answered, the words breaking as she flew apart beneath him, and he followed her into brightness, shattering with her, thrusting suddenly hard and pulsing over and over within her as his seed burst from him, filling her, and she drank him deeper still.

They clung to each other, trembling with the aftermath of their shared climax. He hardly dared move; hardly dared breathe for fear that he would suddenly wake and find it had all been a dream, and the thought, the emotion of it all, and the sudden realization of her absolute trust in him - of her true love for him, and he for her - shattered his resolve, and holding her tightly, he broke down, his body shaking with sobs.

* * *

She held him tightly as he wept, her own tears flowing to mingle with his. As below, so above… as within, so without. Neither of them moved, or pulled away, simply held to one another, slowly calming, sharing breath, descending into languid peace as he softened within her, gently leaving her body, but keeping her close as she settled against his chest.

She nuzzled his hand as he ran his fingers through her hair to ease the tangles and lift the strands away from her cheek, and as their bodies cooled, she shivered a little, until he reached to where she’d left one of the blankets and drew it up over them.

She tipped her head back to look up at him, and met his soft, slow kiss as he pressed his lips to hers. As the kiss ended, she let out a long, slow sigh, and closed her eyes as he pressed a kiss to her forehead, and she let herself, finally, drift away, the crackling of the fire, and the warmth of his arms around her; the slow, steady rhythm of his breathing all soothing her down into the tender peace of restful sleep.

She was safe. She was home.


End file.
